Otis the ice cream truck had one last job before the end of the day. His soft-serve machine was loaded and humming — vanilla, strawberry, and mint-chip, all cold and thick and ready. His chrome nozzle gleamed in the golden evening light. Swirl by swirl, he was going to build the tallest birthday cake Maple Close had ever seen. He rolled down Birchwood Avenue, engine rumbling low, the little bell on his roof going *ding-a-ling, ding-a-ling*. The air smelled like warm pavement and cut grass. Otis knew every bump in this road. Tonight, he felt like he could swirl ice cream all the way to the moon.
Then he stopped. Right across the road, a big delivery truck had tipped sideways and spilled its entire load of cardboard boxes — hundreds of them, stacked in a lumpy, wobbly mountain. The boxes covered every inch of the street. Otis beeped his horn twice. Nobody came. The birthday party started in ten minutes. He tried the alley beside the boxes. Too narrow. His mirrors stuck out just a little too far, and the brick wall scraped — *screek* — against the side. Otis reversed carefully and sat there, engine ticking, thinking hard. *Swirl by swirl*, he told himself. *There has to be a way.*
That's when something small landed on his left mirror with a soft *thump*. It was a sparrow, ruffled and dusty, her feathers sticking up in twelve wrong directions. Her name was Kit, and she looked extremely unimpressed. "My birdbath is completely dry," Kit announced, flicking her tail. "My chicks are hot and grumpy and covered in dust and this is a disaster." She said it all very fast, like she'd been saving it up. Otis looked at his nozzle. He looked at Kit. He had an idea.
He aimed his soft-serve nozzle gently sideways — *whirr, click, hisssss* — and filled Kit's little stone birdbath with one long, cool swirl of vanilla. It began melting right away into a puddle of cold, creamy water. Kit's three chicks tumbled in immediately, cheeping and splashing and getting vanilla on their beaks. Kit made a face. Then she stepped in too. "Better," she admitted. "Now. You need to get to Maple Close?" She hopped to the edge of the mirror. "I flew over that alley this morning. If you fold your serving window all the way in — all the way — there's a gap just wide enough. I'll check ahead."
Otis had never folded his window in before. He pressed the little lever. The window clicked, then folded flat against his side with a satisfying *clunk*. He held his breath. He eased forward into the alley. The brick wall passed centimetres from his side. He went slowly — *rumble, rumble, rumble* — inching through, not rushing. Kit flew just ahead, chirping once when the lane curved left. Then, suddenly, open road. Otis came out onto Maple Close with three minutes to spare. The children were already on the lawn, bouncing on their toes.
Otis parked, lowered his hatch, and got to work. *Swirl by swirl.* One cone. Then another. Vanilla, then strawberry, then mint-chip. Each layer balanced on the last, swirling higher and higher, while the children watched with their mouths hanging open and their hands pressed to their cheeks. When Otis placed the final swirl on top — a perfect spiral of strawberry — everyone breathed out at once. Then it was quiet. The cake was done. The machine ticked down from its hum to a whisper. Otis said goodbye, turned around, and rolled slowly home through the dark streets, his chrome cooling, his bell still at last. Back in the garage, he pulled into his spot. The engine gave three last ticks — *tick… tick… tick* — and went still. Outside, one street lamp buzzed orange above the empty road. Inside, Otis sat parked and dark and done, with a little dried vanilla on his nozzle.
