Duckqwackprep

The moment the last syllable left his lips, the rubber duck in his hand quacked— once, loud, and with purpose . Then it swelled, feathers sprouting from its plastic body, until a real, shimmering mallard sat in his palm.

The ground gave way without warning—no cracks, no tremors. The other ducks hadn’t quacked because they only prepared for the obvious . But Pockets had been quacking about everything , including the tiny, unnatural silence of the crickets near that spot. duckqwackprep

But Leo’s duck, whom he named , had a problem. Pockets quacked constantly. For everything. Quack! (Your shoelace is loose.) Quack! (That cloud looks slightly weird.) Quack! (You’re holding the map upside down.) The other kids laughed. “Your duck’s broken,” they teased. The moment the last syllable left his lips,

Leo looked at Pockets, who gave one tiny, proud quack . And from that day on, Leo never tied his shoes without hearing it. The other ducks hadn’t quacked because they only

Leo blinked. “Duck… QWack… Prep?”

Leo followed Pockets, who was having a meltdown. Quack! Quack! Quack! —for every pebble, every ripple, every distant owl. Leo stumbled, frustrated. “Why can’t you be quiet like the others?”

Then came the clearing. And the sinkhole.