Dex the ice cream truck had a very important job. Every single afternoon, he jingled down the winding path through Clover Park — his big round headlights glowing, his freezer drum spinning with a steady whirr-whirr-whirr — delivering cold, creamy tubs of ice cream to the little storage hut by the pond. Whirr-whirr-whirr. That drum never stopped.
Tonight was the evening cool-down run, the last delivery of the day. Dex had six tubs loaded up — strawberry swirl, mint chip, and one very important tub of honeycomb crunch — and the golden late-day light made long shadows across the path. His jingle-bell chime played three cheerful notes. Ding-ding-ding. Off he went.
The oak trees on either side smelled like bark and evening damp. Dex rolled along, tyres crunching over dry leaves, past the flower beds bursting with yellow marigolds, past the bench where the pigeons always argued about crumbs. He knew every bump of this path by heart.
Then he stopped.
Right across the lane lay an enormous oak branch — thick as a sofa, long as a bus. It must have fallen during the afternoon wind. On one side: the marigold beds. On the other: the pond, glimmering dark. Dex could not go left. He could not go right. Whirr-whirr-whirr. His drum kept spinning, but Dex was stuck.
He shone his headlights at the branch and thought hard. He couldn't push it — he had no arms, only a freezer drum. He couldn't call for help — everyone else had gone home. The honeycomb crunch was already waiting to be delivered. Whirr-whirr-whirr.
Then something moved behind the branch. Two small eyes blinked in the headlight glow. A round, wrinkled head poked up above the bark.
"Oh," said a slow, low voice. "Hello. I am Dob. I have been waiting here since lunch."
Dob was a tortoise — a very small, very patient one — who had been sitting behind the branch all afternoon, unable to get back to his sleeping spot under the roots on the other side. He did not seem upset. He had used the time to count all the pebbles nearby. There were forty-one.
"I know every stone in this park," said Dob, very slowly. "And I know exactly where the mud is softest. Just there — " he pointed one leathery foot — "right under the middle of the branch."
Dex looked. The mud there was dark and thick and squelchy. And that gave him an idea. A very cold idea.
Dex aimed his freezer drum straight at that patch of mud. He spun it faster — whirr-WHIRR-WHIRR — and a great billowing gust of cold air rushed out, white and frosty, rolling across the ground like a low cloud. The mud crackled. Then it hissed. Then it went solid with a sound like someone stepping on a crisp packet.
Ice. Firm, smooth, slippery ice — right under the branch.
The branch shifted. It creaked once, groaned once, and then — whooomp — it slid sideways off the frozen ramp and thumped softly into the grass. The path was clear.
Dob plodded through the gap without hurrying. "Thank you," he said, and disappeared under the oak roots. One leathery foot, then the other. Gone.
Dex delivered the strawberry swirl, the mint chip, and the very important honeycomb crunch to the storage hut right on time. He nudged the hut door shut with his bumper. Job done.
Back at the garage, Dex rolled into his spot and switched off his headlights. His engine ticked softly in the dark — tick, tick, tick — slowing down, quieter and quieter, until the whole garage was still. His drum had stopped spinning at last. Whirr... whirr... quiet.
