Kiwi's Bright Idea

Vroom! Vroom! It was the night of the Great Forest Race.

The track wound through Wan Hundred Woods, lit by a hundred lanterns swaying gently in the trees. Critters lined the course. The crowd hummed and chattered. And at the starting line, three friends got ready in three very different ways.

Taro the purple sloth stretched. Slooowly. So slowly that one of his arms hadn't quite caught up with the other yet.

Tang the orange possum bounced from one foot to the other, then the other foot, then the first foot again, then both at once.

And Kiwi the green koala? Kiwi was checking his kart.

He checked the wheels. He checked the steering. He checked the brakes, then checked them again. Then he found a tiny bolt that didn't look quite right, frowned at it, tightened it, and started the whole check over from the beginning.

"Kiwi," said Tang. "It's a kart. Not a watch."

"The left wheel is a little loose," said Kiwi.

"Karts are supposed to be a little loose."

"Karts are supposed to be exactly as loose as I want them to be."

Tang opened his mouth to argue, but before he could—

Creak.

Then creak creak.

High up in the trees, the old vine that held all the lanterns along the track was slowly, quietly, coming apart. Thread by thread. Nobody noticed.

Except Kiwi.

"The vine," he said. "If that snaps, the whole track goes dark."

"It won't snap," said Tang.

"It's going to snap."

"It looks fine—"

SNAP.

The lanterns flickered once. Twice. And then every light on the track blinked out.

For a moment, the only sound in Wan Hundred Woods was the wind in the leaves.

"…okay," said Tang quietly.

The other racers groaned. The little critters in the crowd murmured. Taro, who had been halfway through his stretch, decided this was a fine time to sit down and find his berries.

But Kiwi was already moving.

He opened his toolbox. He looked up at the broken vine. He looked at the dark lanterns. He looked at his toolbox again. Then he picked up a stick and scratched something in the dirt — a little drawing only he could understand. A wheel. A rope. A spinning thing.

"I can fix this," he said.

He gathered what he needed. A spare cart wheel. A long curl of vine. A flat board for a base. A handful of clips and one very stubborn screw. His paws moved in the dark — clank, clank, tap — fitting the wheel onto a stand, looping the vine, tying it tight to the lantern wires.

It looked, when he was done, like a little running machine. Step on the wheel. Turn the wheel. Light the track.

He climbed on.

And he ran.

Run, run, run!

The wheel spun. The vine pulled. And — flicker, flicker — the lanterns blazed back to life, brighter than before.

The crowd cheered. The other racers climbed back into their karts.

"The race can start!" someone shouted.

"Ready," called the announcer. "Set—"

"Wait," said Tang. "What about Kiwi?"

Kiwi was still on the wheel. Still running. Because if he stopped, the lights would go out. He looked at the track. He looked at the karts lined up. He looked at his own kart, just sitting there, perfectly checked and perfectly ready and perfectly empty.

"Go," he said. "Someone has to keep the lights on."

"That's not fair," said Tang.

"Tang. Just race."

But Tang didn't move.

He looked at Kiwi on the wheel. Then he looked at his kart. Then he got That Look — the one that meant he'd already decided something and was only now thinking about whether it was a good idea.

He grabbed a vine. Looped it around the back wheel of his kart. Tied the other end to Kiwi's running machine. Climbed in. And revved his engine. Hard.

"Tang, what are you—"

"JUST RUN!" Tang shouted. And he floored it.

Tang's kart spun in wild, looping circles around the machine. Round and round and round. The vine pulled the wheel. The wheel turned. The lanterns blazed brighter than ever — bright as morning, bright as a hundred fireflies, bright enough to see every leaf on every tree in Wan Hundred Woods.

"GO!" Tang yelled over the noise. "GO GO GO!"

Kiwi jumped off the wheel.

He sprinted for his kart.

He didn't check it. He didn't tighten the loose wheel. He didn't have time. He just climbed in, gripped the steering, and drove like he'd never driven before — wind in his ears, lights blazing, the crowd hollering. The loose wheel wobbled, and he let it wobble. The kart leaned, and he leaned with it.

He crossed the finish line just ahead of Tang's still-spinning kart, which looped over the line backwards and came to a slow, dizzy stop.

Taro looked up from his berries.

He had finished ages ago.

"Did you win," he asked Tang, "or lose?"

Tang grinned, panting, his fur sticking up in every direction. "Yes."

And the lanterns of Wan Hundred Woods swayed gently in the trees, and the crowd cheered, and somewhere in the dirt at the starting line, a little drawing of a wheel and a rope was already starting to fade away.