Kiwi's Bright Idea

A hundred lanterns swayed over the track. At the starting line, three friends got ready for the Great Lantern Run in three different ways.

Taro the purple sloth was already in his cart, settling his moss cushion with enormous care.

Tang the orange possum bounced from paw to paw, drumming his steering wheel so fast it sounded like a woodpecker.

And Kiwi the green koala was measuring.

Kiwi tapped the left wheel nut with his little wooden wrench. Click. He tapped the right. Click. Then he squinted along the rim.

"Two millimeters loose," he said. "It'll pull on every bend."

"Kiwi." Tang's whole cart was shaking. "It's a cart race! You drive it, you don't do its homework!"

"A build has to be right, Tang."

"A build has to be FUN."

Kiwi did not look up. "It can be both. Right first."

Creak — CRACK.

Over the first bend, an old branch gave way. The vine that held the lantern line came down in a rush of leaves, and the front half of the track went dark.

Nobody moved.

Then Cheri the red giraffe lifted her head above the crowd, because she was the only one tall enough to see where it had come from.

"It isn't broken," she said. "It came unhooked. It needs to go back up eleven feet. I'm looking right at it."

Kiwi was already moving.

He chalked a sharp white arrow on the trunk of the old cedar. "There. That notch. Pull from there and the lanterns swing clear of the track instead of across it."

He threw a rope over the notch and caught the falling end.

Then he stopped. A rope needs something to hold it, and the only thing in the clearing heavy enough was a cart.

Kiwi looked at his cart.

He hooked the rope to the back bumper and walked the cart backwards, one careful step at a time, and the vine came up off the track. Five feet. Eight feet. Eleven.

A hundred lanterns lifted into the leaves and blazed back to life.

"Track clear," said Cheri.

"Kiwi! Come on!" called Tang.

But Kiwi didn't move. The rope was tied to his cart, and his cart was the only thing holding the lanterns up.

He put his paw on the hook and felt the whole line pulling against it.

"Go," he said. "Somebody has to hold it."

"That's not fair."

"Tang. Just race."

Tang looked at Kiwi. Then at the rope. Then up at the little chalk arrow.

And then he got That Look — the one that means he has already decided something and is only now wondering whether it was a good idea.

He grabbed the loose end of the rope. "Where does it go? Here?" He pointed at the arrow.

"That's — yes, but you can't just —"

Tang tied the rope to his own back bumper, dropped into his seat, and drove.

Not away. Around.

One long roaring lap around the great oak, and the rope went with him, winding once around the trunk. Then twice. Then three times.

"Two more!" called Cheri, from up where she could see. "One more. Stop."

Tang stopped.

The rope held. Not because anything heavy was on the end of it, but because a rope wound three times around a tree does not care whether anybody is holding it.

The lanterns stayed up.

"Kiwi," Tang panted. "Unhook."

Kiwi unhooked.

His cart rolled free — and sat down crooked. The rope had hauled on that bumper all evening, and the back left wheel had come over sideways.

Kiwi stared at it. "My wheel."

"It's on," said Tang.

"It's crooked. It's not where it's supposed to be."

Taro turned his head. Slowly. He looked at the wheel for a long, quiet moment.

"It wobbles more when you go slow," he said.

Kiwi looked at Taro. Taro blinked once, entirely peaceful, and looked back down the track.

HOOO-OOT! went the starting horn.

Taro's cart rolled away in a smooth, silent glide. Tang shot off in a flash of orange.

Kiwi took a sharp breath and pressed the pedal.

Clatter-clatter-thump.

The wheel wobbled so hard it shook his paws up to his shoulders. Every part of him wanted to fight the bar, to haul that wheel back where it belonged. The cart dragged and bucked.

Then came the wide left turn around the great oak.

Kiwi eased off the bar. He didn't fight the pull. He leaned with the rattle.

And the tilted wheel bit the inside edge of the boards and held on — and instead of dragging, it pulled, swinging the cart around the oak like it had been waiting all evening for a corner.

Kiwi laughed out loud.

He didn't straighten it on the next bend either.

Clatter-swing. Clatter-swing.

He went past Taro in a rush of air, pulled level with Tang, and the two carts crossed the chalk line together. Taro coasted over a moment later, stopping exactly on the line.

Kiwi hopped down and looked at his cart.

The wheel was still crooked.

He reached into his pouch and found the wrench. He held the handle a second.

Then he let go, and closed the pouch.

"I'll fix it tomorrow," said Kiwi.

Taro, already deep in his moss cushion, closed his eyes.

"Good idea," said Taro.

And high above them, the lanterns of Wan Hundred Woods swayed gently in the evening wind.