Bumper was a big blue-and-orange monster truck with four tires so enormous they could roll right over a fallen log without even a bump. Every evening, he sat in his garage and waited for his radio to crackle. Tonight, it crackled loud. *Thwp-thwp-thwp.* "Bumper! Mudslide at Forest Park! Ducks can't cross the creek!" Bumper's engine turned over once — *grumble-rumble-ROAR* — and he rolled out under a sky the colour of dark blueberries, headlights cutting two bright yellow paths through the trees. The air smelled like pine needles and wet dirt and something that meant rain was coming soon.
He found the trail in six minutes flat. But when he got there, he stopped. The old wooden bridge was completely gone — buried under a mountain of brown mud that stretched from one bank of the creek all the way to the other. *Gone. Just gone.* And on top of that, the trail signpost had vanished too, swallowed right up to its tip. *Roll, roll, roll* — Bumper pressed his front tires into the mud, testing it. Soft. Very soft. His tires sank down with a slow *schlorp* sound, like pulling boots out of thick oatmeal. He reversed. He'd need to go carefully. But first — which way was the duck pond, anyway?
That's when he heard it. A small, extremely irritated voice. "EXCUSE me." Bumper's headlights swung left. There, stuck perfectly in the middle of the mud, sat a small green frog, arms crossed, chin up, looking absolutely furious about the situation. One of his back legs was buried to the knee. "Are you stuck?" Bumper asked. "I am NOT stuck," said the frog. Then he tried to hop and didn't move an inch. "I am *slightly* stuck," the frog admitted.
Very carefully, Bumper lowered his side mirror down like a little step. The frog grabbed on, pulled himself free with a wet *pop*, and climbed up, shaking mud off each foot one at a time. "I live at the duck pond," the frog announced, settling onto the mirror with his arms crossed again. "I know exactly where it is." "Perfect," said Bumper. "I need directions." "Left," said the frog. Then immediately: "No — MY left."
*Roll, roll, roll* — Bumper began. Slow and steady, big tires pressing down, packing the mud flat and firm beneath him. Every rotation squeezed the mud tighter. He went forward. He rolled back. Forward. Back. The mud stopped being soup and started being road. The frog called out turns: "Angle right a bit — no, less than that — yes! Good." A small stone got rolled flat. A buried branch creaked and then held. The far bank of the creek got closer with every pass of those giant tires. *Roll, roll, roll* — and then Bumper's front tires touched solid ground on the other side. He rumbled a low, satisfied sound deep in his engine. Behind him, packed flat and firm, was a proper muddy road where the mudslide had been. From the trees came a sound like rustling paper: the duck family. Mama duck first, then seven ducklings in a wobbling line, each one stepping exactly where the one before had stepped. They crossed without sinking even a toe. The last duckling sneezed at the far bank, shook its tail, and waddled on. The frog hopped down from the mirror without saying thank you — but he did pause and look back once before disappearing into the reeds. That seemed like enough.
Bumper turned and drove home under a sky now full of hard cold stars. His tires were caked in dried mud, heavy and thick, and they made a low *thump-thump-thump* on the road all the way back. He pulled into the garage. The engine ticked. Ticked. Slowed. The mud on his tires was already starting to crack at the edges, pale and dry. Bumper's headlights dimmed to nothing, and the garage went quiet and dark and still.
