The clan assembled at dawn, shivering in the damp chill by the waterside. Mist drifted off the river, blurring the shapes of reeds and distant boulders. Boss Otter, fidgeting with his hat brim, whispered the plan as if the grass itself might be listening.
“First, we need disguises,” he said. “The human folk won’t suspect a thing if we blend in.”
Willa cocked her head. “Blend in with what? The only things around here are geese and fishermen.”
Boss Otter produced a paint tin, a feather boa, and a pair of spectacles with no lenses. Squeak grinned.
Pip was already rummaging through an old knapsack, pulling out a tangle of netting and what looked suspiciously like a baby’s sunhat. Aunt Mabel, skeptical as ever, rolled her eyes but tied a daisy behind one ear. Grandpa Gus blinked drowsily at the spectacle, then yawned so widely his whiskers quivered.
With costumes prepared, the clan slunk along the bank, sticking low to the ground. The willow tree loomed above, trailing its fronds like green curtains. They paused in the shadow of its trunk. Willa’s heart thumped as she peered ahead.
Across a muddy expanse lay the fish hatchery: low, blocky buildings ringed in chain-link fence. Big white signs warned KEEP OUT in wobbly letters. The air was heavy with the scent of water and scales. Now and then, a hatchery worker in rubber boots shuffled past.
Boss Otter squinted at the fence. “That’s our first obstacle. Squeak?”
Squeak produced a spool of twine and a bent spoon, looking delighted. “I can make a distraction!”
Mabel grumbled, “Or we could just squeeze under the fence like normal otters.”
But there was no time for dissent. Somewhere nearby, a dog barked—sharp and close. The sound made Willa’s fur prickle. Through the fog, a long, low shadow moved near the hatchery’s gate: the night watchman’s hound, sniffing the air.
Boss Otter signaled to freeze. Mud squelched beneath their bellies. All that stood between the clan and their prize was a narrow plank of wood thrown across a ditch, and the looming presence of the hound, now nosing along the fence line.
They pressed flat, breath catching, as the hound stopped. Its keen eyes swept the riverbank, ears pricked, nose twitching. Willa felt tension spark through the clan—one wrong move and their whole plan would unravel before it even began.
Halfway across the plank, Pip let out a tiny sneeze.
The hound’s head snapped up, eyes glinting. A low growl rumbled in its throat as it crept towards the ditch, hackles up, paws silent on the dewy grass.
Willa’s thoughts raced. Her family waited in a tangle of fur and feathers behind her, Boss Otter ready to bolt, Mabel glaring, Grandpa Gus blissfully unaware, the twins shaking. The caper teetered on a single, breathless moment, the air charged with possibility and peril.
The hound paused at the edge of the ditch, nose mere inches from their hiding place. Its tongue lolled, tail stiff—a single bark away from disaster.