Every night in Neon City, when the big moon climbed above the rooftops, Zip the Raptor grabbed one bag of glow-stones and ran. Quick feet, quick feet, quick feet. Up the fire escapes, across the bridges, leap by leap to the tallest towers — and ping, ping, ping, the streetlights bloomed on, one by one, all across the city.
But tonight, Zip's bag had a hole in it. A tiny one. Then a bigger one. Then — RIIIP — the whole bottom tore open mid-leap, and every glow-stone burst into the night sky like a firework going backwards. Zip watched them scatter. Six rooftops. Six separate rooftops. The city began to go dark. Building by building, like someone blowing out birthday candles. The noodle shop on Claw Street — blink. The tall blue tower on Fang Avenue — blink. The little clock above the library — blink, blink, blink.
Zip sniffed the cool night air, shook both legs once to loosen them up, and said, "Quick feet, quick feet, quick feet." And ran. The first rooftop was easy. Zip spotted the glow-stone winking between two chimney pipes, scooped it up, and jumped — neon signs whipping past in streaks of pink and gold — landing on rooftop two with a solid THWUMP that shook a pigeon awake. The pigeon gave Zip a very grumpy look. Zip said sorry. The pigeon did not accept. Rooftop three had two stones stuck in a drainpipe. Zip fished them out with one careful claw, tucked them into a spare sock from a pocket, and kept moving. Quick feet, quick feet, quick feet.
Rooftop four was different. Rooftop four had a small Ankylosaurus sitting very still in the middle of it, holding a glow-stone to her chest like it was the most important thing in the world. She had a spiky back, stubby legs, and enormous worried eyes. "I'm Bonk," she said. "I jumped UP, but I can't jump DOWN, and now it's dark everywhere, and I don't know how to get home." She squeezed the stone a little tighter. It pulsed warm orange against her chin.
Zip looked at the stone. Looked at the dark street below. Looked at all the rooftops stretching back toward home. And then — click — something made sense. The answer wasn't just collecting the stones. It was putting them back in the RIGHT order. One stone per rooftop, all the way back to street level. A glowing path. A road made of light. "Don't move," said Zip. "Well — move. Just follow me." Zip sprinted the last two rooftops, scooped up the final stones — and on rooftop five found a Stegosaurus named Plonk who had sat down to eat a sandwich and somehow also couldn't get home. On rooftop six, a very confused Pterodactyl named Squib was trying to use a glow-stone as a hat. "Come on," said Zip. "All of you. Quick feet, quick feet — well, quick EVERYTHING." And one by one, Zip placed a stone on each rooftop ledge going back. Each one lit up gold, then amber, then blazing white. The path glowed. Bonk followed. Plonk followed. Squib half-flew, half-waddled, still wearing the glow-stone briefly before Zip retrieved it.
Zip set the very last stone into the final streetlight socket at the bottom of the fire escape, and the whole city exhaled in one enormous bloom of colour — amber and pink and fizzing green, all the way to the horizon. Then four very tired dinosaurs clanked down the last iron staircase, single file, feet ringing on each step, into the warm yellow puddle of light on the pavement below. Zip at the front. Bonk in the middle. Plonk at the back, still holding the sandwich. And somewhere above them, all across Neon City, every single light was on.
