The Master Plan

That evening, the otters gathered inside their den for an emergency planning meeting.

Boss Otter had prepared a presentation.

Unfortunately, the presentation was written on the inside of a pancake.

And Grandpa Gus had eaten it.

"Right," Boss Otter said, attempting to remain calm. "We shall begin again."

He rolled out a large sheet of bark.

On it was a drawing of the hatchery.

The drawing featured a building, a fence, a pond, a gate, and what appeared to be a very angry chicken.

"What's the chicken for?" asked Willa.

"That's the security guard."

"That's a heron."

"Exactly. A very suspicious chicken."

Boss Otter tapped the drawing.

"Our mission has three objectives."

He held up one claw.

"First, we must get past the fence."

A second claw.

"Second, we must reach the fish ponds."

A third claw.

"Third, we must get out with enough fish to feed the entire clan."

Pip raised his paw.

"Can we get out with enough fish to feed the entire clan twice?"

"Ambitious," said Boss Otter.

"Three times?" asked Squeak.

"Now you're thinking like a professional."

Aunt Mabel sighed.

"And how, exactly, are we supposed to get past the fence?"

Boss Otter puffed out his chest.

"I have a plan."

Everyone groaned.

Because Boss Otter's plans had a peculiar history.

His plan to steal a picnic basket had resulted in the clan spending an entire afternoon trapped inside a hollow log.

His plan to raid a campsite had ended with Grandpa Gus wearing a cooking pot as a helmet.

And his plan to sneak into the farmer's apple orchard had somehow involved a runaway wheelbarrow, three confused ducks, and a very upset farmer.

Still, this plan was different.

Boss Otter could feel it.

This was going to be the greatest heist the world had ever known.

He just needed a few things.

A disguise.

A distraction.

A getaway vehicle.

And someone who knew how to read a map.

He looked at Willa.

Willa looked at him.

"Absolutely not," she said.

Willa folded her little paws across her chest.

"Papa, I have a question."

Boss Otter sighed. "Of course you do."

"If we're planning to steal fish, shouldn't we know how many fish we're stealing?"

Boss rubbed his chin.

"Excellent question. I estimate somewhere between four hundred and twelve thousand."

"That's quite a difference," Mabel observed.

"That's why we need a bigger sack," Boss replied.

Grandpa Gus raised a sleepy paw.

"I vote we steal the ones that taste best."

"All fish taste best," said Pip.

"Incorrect," Gus replied. "You've clearly never eaten a disappointing minnow."

Boss slapped the map with his paw.

"Enough! We need specialists. Every successful operation requires a team of experts."

He pointed to himself.

"I shall be the mastermind."

He pointed to Aunt Mabel.

"You shall be our lookout."

Mabel frowned. "Why me?"

"Because you have excellent eyesight."

"I also have excellent hearing, and I can hear you making a terrible decision."

Boss ignored her.

He pointed to Pip and Squeak.

"You two shall handle distractions."

The twins grinned at each other.

This was precisely the sort of responsibility they had been hoping for.

Unfortunately, nobody had ever successfully explained to them the difference between a distraction and a catastrophe.

"Grandpa Gus," Boss continued, "you shall be our getaway specialist."

Gus opened both eyes.

"Do I get a boat?"

"No."

"Then I'm not interested."

Finally, Boss turned to Willa.

"And you shall be our brains."

Willa blinked.

"Don't we already have you for that?"

The den fell silent.

Aunt Mabel snorted.

Pip fell backward laughing.

Even Grandpa Gus cracked one eye open.

Boss slowly removed his hat.

"Family," he announced, "I have decided that Willa shall be our assistant brains."

And with that, the planning began.

For the next three hours, the clan drew maps, argued about rope, debated the merits of disguising themselves as ducks, and accidentally set fire to a pancake.

By midnight, they had a plan.

It was complicated.

It was ambitious.

It involved a wheelbarrow, seventeen fish-shaped decoys, a borrowed canoe, and a pair of trousers that nobody could remember owning.

It was, without question, the worst plan in the history of Otterton.

Which was exactly why Boss Otter loved it.

What the clan didn't know was that they weren't the only ones interested in the hatchery.

Across town, beneath the floorboards of an abandoned riverside shed, another group was studying a map.

A much better map.

And at its center was the same target.

The Bramble Creek Fish Hatchery.

"Tomorrow night," whispered a masked raccoon, "the fish will be ours."

His name was Rocco Raccoon.

And he had a plan of his own.