Beep was a bright yellow school bus with squeaky wipers and a very important arm — her big red STOP sign, folded flat against her side, waiting for its moment. Every afternoon, Beep carried her children home safe. Every afternoon, that red arm swung out — CLUNK — and every single car on the road went perfectly, completely still. On this particular afternoon, the last child had been dropped off, the seats were empty, and rain was tapping on Beep's roof like little fingers. Pat, pat, pat. Her wipers swished. Her headlights made two gold smears on the wet road ahead.
She was nearly back to the depot when she rumbled onto the old river bridge — and stopped. Right there in the middle of the road sat a family of ducks. Mama duck, six fuzzy ducklings, and one very soggy cardboard box. Cars were stacking up from both ends of the bridge, honking and huffing. A bicycle courier named Otto sat on the kerb, dripping from his helmet to his boots, looking at the box like it had personally offended him. It was, apparently, a birthday cake. His birthday cake delivery. It had survived the puddle. Otto had not.
Beep's engine rumbled low. She looked at the ducks. She looked at the cars. She looked at poor damp Otto. CLUNK — out swung the big red STOP sign arm, wide and steady as a crossing guard. Every car went still. Just like that. Horns stopped. Engines idled. Even the rain seemed to pause for a moment. STOP sign out. Beep was in charge now. But someone still needed to hold the sign for the parade. Beep opened her back doors with a soft whomp of rubber seals. Inside: glitter. Paper. Three crayons. One enormous, enthusiastic drawing of what might have been a rainbow, or possibly a very colourful snake. Otto squelched over. He looked at the art supplies. He looked at Beep. He picked up the biggest crayon — orange — and in large, wobbly letters, wrote: DUCK PARADE IN PROGRESS. He held it above his head. He looked slightly less miserable. Only slightly.
Then Beep did something she had never done before. She rumbled forward — slowly, so slowly, at exactly duck-walking pace. The ducklings waddled. Mama duck carried herself with great dignity. The soggy cake box slid along the wet road between them, pushed gently by the smallest duckling's beak. Step by step. Waddle by waddle. Beep's engine kept a low, patient rumble — grrrm, grrrm, grrrm — like a lullaby for a very small, very damp parade. Otto walked beside them, sign held high, water still dripping off his chin.
When they reached the far side, mama duck hopped down to the riverbank without a backward glance. Six ducklings tumbled after her, one by one, plop, plop, plop, plop, plop, plop — into the reeds. The soggy cake box stayed on the road. Otto looked at it. He picked it up. The cake, miraculously, was fine. Beep swung her STOP sign arm back in — CLUNK — and the bridge opened up again. Cars moved. Otto pedalled off with his cake, his handmade sign tucked under one soggy arm. The rain softened to a mist.
Beep rolled into the depot and parked in her spot. The engine ticked quietly as it cooled — tick, tick, tick — slower and slower. The headlights dimmed. The wipers stopped mid-swish. In the back, one orange crayon rolled gently to the edge of the seat, and rested there.
