The Thumbprint in Dax's Pocket

The pottery room smelled of cool clay and rain, and the moment Dax the badger cub stepped through the door, the room felt bigger than he'd imagined it would be — high shelves lined with lopsided bowls, a row of low wheels humming like sleepy bees, and a dozen other cubs already settled onto their stools. His mother gave his paw one squeeze before letting go, and Dax stood at the edge of the room, his lunch pail still swinging from his other paw. Dax swallowed, feeling suddenly very small next to all those humming wheels.

Every other cub in the room seemed to already know the secret. Small paws pressed and rolled fat gray lumps of clay into smooth balls before the teacher had even said a word, wheels beginning to spin one after another under quick fingers. Dax looked down at his own lump of clay, cold and heavy in his palms, and had no idea when he was supposed to start, or how, or what the rolling was even for.