A Gecko Walks Across Suining's Drawing

At dusk, the branch outside Leafhaven Cottage turned orange. Suining hugged a dry leaf wider than herself and a thin thorn. She wanted to reach the branch tip and scratch in the park lamps as they lit up one by one—not the way home this time, but a view she chose herself. Doumi begged to help. Taisheng frowned in the doorway, paused, and only said, "Hold the leaf steady."

They edged along the cracks in the bark, Doumi wobbling as he held up the big leaf, his palms dusty with bark powder. Far below, giant shoes scuffed along the path; lamps blinked on one after another, and specks of light floated on the pond. Suining crouched and pricked little dots into the leaf.

Suddenly a gecko climbed over from the back of the branch and stopped right in front of them—many times longer than Suining, round eyes shining. Its tongue flicked out and licked its own eyeball. They froze. The gecko chirped—tsk, tsk, tsk—and Doumi sat down hard, the leaf falling flat on the branch. A small moth flitted past the light; the gecko darted after it, running straight across the leaf, and vanished into the foliage.

Suining looked down. The leaf had picked up the bark dust from Doumi's hands, and the gecko had left a trail of tiny flower-shaped footprints scattered among her lamps, like fireworks over the city.

"It drew too!" Doumi whispered.

Back home, the leaf lay on the Bottle-Cap Table. Doumi pressed his dusty little handprint beside the gecko's prints, and Yehe burst out laughing. Taisheng stared for a long moment, then added one big thumbprint in the corner.