Vernon’s eye twitched. “That’s why we have a plan.” He snapped his claws again, and the weasel unrolled a blueprint of Granny’s cottage. “Phase one: The weasel creates a diversion—fake squirrel attack, very dramatic. Phase two: Raccoons cut the power line to the security jam-cam. Phase three: I go in through the window disguised as a health inspector. Phase four: We walk out with the strudel before Red even laces up her boots.”
In the shadow of the old wooden bridge that led into the heart of the forest, a wiry squirrel named Flick sat hunched over a stolen acorn cap. He wasn’t eating. He was listening. be prepared hoodwinked song
Flick sighed, tucked his pencil behind his ear, and climbed higher into the tree. He’d seen this before. Vernon was a dreamer. And dreams, in this forest, had a way of running headfirst into reality—usually in the form of a little girl with a red hood, a grandmother with a black belt in judo, and a singing goat who just happened to be passing by. Vernon’s eye twitched