Gus the Ankylosaurus had one very important job. Every winter, when the big ice slope behind Fern Mountain turned slippery and perfect, Gus ran the Glacier Games — the greatest belly-slide competition in the whole snowy valley. And this year, just like every year, nobody could slide without the flag. Those were the rules. Gus was very serious about rules. Five dinosaurs stood at the top of the slope, bouncing on their heels. Their breath made little clouds in the cold air. "Can we go yet?" said one. "Can we go NOW?" said another. Gus patted his round belly, looked at his empty hands, and felt his stomach drop. The flag was gone.
"Nobody slides," said Gus firmly. "Not yet." And he turned and stomped back down the mountain to find it. Stomp, stomp, stomp. His short legs punched through the crust of the snow, one determined step at a time, belly swaying side to side. First, he passed the pine grove, where the trees smelled sharp and cold as a freshly snapped twig. And there — poking out of a little tent made entirely of snowballs — was a bright flash of red. The flag! A small Pachycephalosaurus named Drum sat proudly inside. "It's my tent pole," said Drum. "It's holding everything up."
Gus sighed. "I'll help you find a better pole," he said. "But first — can you help me stack these without them rolling?" Drum looked at the lopsided tower and nodded. Between Gus's careful nudging belly and Drum's very hard head, they wedged the snowballs into a perfect pyramid. It wobbled. It held. Drum beamed. Gus grabbed the flag and stomped on.
Stomp, stomp, stomp. Down past the frozen pond, where the ice was so clear you could see old leaves pressed flat underneath like dark green hands. Something swooped overhead with a rush of cold air from wide wings. It was Zip the Pterosaur, hovering sheepishly above the water, holding the flag sideways. "I thought it was a very large fish," said Zip, looking at the flag, then at Gus, then back at the flag. "It is not a fish," said Gus. Zip dropped it immediately. Gus caught it with both short arms stretched as wide as they would go. He tucked it under his chin and kept walking.
Stomp, stomp, stomp. All the way to the bottom of the mountain, where a Stegosaurus named Tuck was fast asleep in a snow hollow, snoring in long, rattling gusts that made a nearby icicle tremble and drip. And there, pinned flat under Tuck's enormous side, was the other end of the flag. Of course. Gus crouched low. He took the edge of the flag between his claws and pulled — one slow inch. Then another. Tuck snored. The icicle dripped. One more inch. One more. Then — out! The flag came free with a soft fwump, and Tuck rolled over without waking, sighing deeply into the snow.
Gus held the flag up. It was a little crumpled and slightly damp, but it was his. He took one big breath of icy mountain air and turned back up the slope. And then the parade began. Drum came first, bouncing. Then Zip glided low overhead. Then Tuck, who had woken up just in time and was very pleased to be included. Stomp, stomp, stomp — all the way back up Fern Mountain, a line of dinosaurs giggling and crunching through the snow. At the top, five impatient dinosaurs were still bouncing. Now eight dinosaurs lined up instead. Gus walked to the very front of the slope. He stretched both short arms as tall as they would go and raised the flag high against the white winter sky. Then he swooped it down — and everyone went. Eight dinosaurs, belly-first, shooting down the ice in a great laughing rush of snow spray and happy noise. Gus slid fastest of all, flag still in hand, eyes squinting against the cold wind, mouth open wide. At the bottom, he came to a slow stop, rolled gently onto his back, and stared up at the pale grey sky. Snow settled soft on his round belly. Everything was quiet. Everything was still.
