Just then, a small breeze slipped in through the half-open window. It riffled the neat stack of notebooks, fluttered Oliver’s whiskers, and with a soft fwip turned the page.
The wet ink smeared as the paper flipped. The tidy splodge-duck stretched, smudged, and tumbled into a long, loopy shape that trailed across the middle of the sheet.
Oliver let out a very un-neat squeak. “Oh no… now it’s twice as wrong,” he groaned, pressing his paws to his head. But when he dared to peek between his claws, the smudge looked a little like a river, winding and wobbling across the page.
“It’s all messy,” Oliver murmured, “but it does seem to be going somewhere…” His curious feeling wriggled a little stronger.
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