The Zip Can Wait

Moss’s costume had a silver moon sewn onto the front and two openings for his small dragon wings. He stood beside Papa behind the school stage, where a low bench held his water bottle. Beyond the curtain, chairs scraped and families murmured.

Moss knew his first line. He had practised it while brushing his teeth, although toothpaste made the words rather bubbly.

Tonight, his knees kept bending and straightening. His tail brushed the bench. He thought about his line, then the lights, then whether Papa would see the silver moon from his seat.

A little pocket called Hem sat stitched beside the moon. Hem had soft cloth hands and a folded opening for a mouth. Usually, he liked listening to Moss tell him things.

Tonight, his tiny hands fluttered against his seams.

“Lots happening,” Moss whispered to him.

Hem nodded.

Moss pulled up his costume zip. Halfway up, it caught.

He tugged again. The zip stayed exactly where it was.

Papa bent a little closer. “Would you like a hand?”

“I can do it.” Moss pulled harder.

His heart thumped beneath the silver moon. Heat crept into his cheeks. His claws gripped the little metal tab so tightly that their tips began to tremble.

He was frustrated, and underneath that was a frightened, hurried feeling.