The Day Oliver Stopped Being Perfect

Oliver picked up his pen very, very carefully. His paw still shook a little, but the wobbly ink river on the page seemed to be waiting for him.

“Perhaps,” he whispered, “it needs… banks.”

He began to follow the smudgy line, adding a curly little shore on one side, then the other. Where the ink looped, he drew a bend with a sandy beach. Where it spluttered, he drew a tiny rock. Soon, he found himself sketching the smallest of boats, no bigger than a breadcrumb, bobbing along the inky current.

The boats were crooked. One had a lopsided sail. Another leaned too far to the left. Oliver winced—then, to his surprise, a small chuckle escaped him.

“They’re not perfect,” he said softly, “but they do look rather brave.”