The first rays of dawn painted the garden in shades of gold and silver. Harry stretched stiffly, his small muscles sore from a night of cramped hiding inside his makeshift burrow. His eyes burned with exhaustion, but he had survived—and that was enough. Now came the harder part: making it through the day.
He glanced at the worn twig-shovel lying by the entrance. It had saved his life, but it was cracked and splintered, the tip dulled from frantic digging. If he was to last longer in this wilderness, he needed something sturdier—something that could serve as both tool and weapon.
Searching the ground nearby, he found a long, straight twig. Its end split easily to hold a shard of rock he scavenged from the soil. Using strands of dried grass, he lashed the pieces tightly together until he held a crude spear in his hands. It wasn't perfect—the bindings were rough, the stone uneven—but it felt solid, reassuring.
Next came protection. A glint of pale shell caught his eye, half-buried in the dirt. He dug it free—a fragment of a snail's shell, curved and strong. With clover leaves for padding and another twist of grass fibers for straps, Harry strapped the shell to his arm. A shield. Rough and ugly, but better than nothing. He tested it, bracing it in front of him, and smiled faintly. For the first time, he didn't feel entirely helpless.
He quenched his thirst with morning dew, climbing blades of grass to sip from the droplets that still clung there. The sweetness refreshed him. He made a new clover pouch, filled it carefully, and strapped it to his side. Then, orienting himself by climbing another tall stalk, he spotted his house again in the far distance. It loomed like a distant mountain, impossibly far but still visible. That was where he needed to go.
So he began the trek.
The garden was alive with movement. A shiny black beetle lumbered across his path, its body gleaming like polished armor. Crickets chirped from the undergrowth, leaping great distances that made Harry feel even smaller. Once or twice he caught sight of ants in the distance and immediately ducked low, skirting far around them. The memory of their pursuit chilled him too deeply to risk another encounter.
Then came a sound that froze him. A splat—wet, heavy, final. He crouched and peered between blades of grass.
Looming in the near distance was a frog, its slick body glistening with moisture, its enormous throat pulsing as it gulped down its prey. To Harry, it was the size of a whale. He recognized it instantly—the same frog he had seen the day before snatching a cricket from the bushes. Now he watched it finish another unlucky insect, its tongue whipping out with terrifying speed.
Harry's stomach turned. One leap from that monster could cover the distance he might run in half a breath. He backed away slowly, keeping his eyes on the frog, and then slipped into a detour through thicker grass. He didn't stop moving until the frog was far behind him.
Relieved, but shaken, he trudged onward until he reached the shadow of a giant mushroom. Its cap stretched like a massive umbrella overhead, brown and dimpled, offering him a place to rest. His arms ached from carrying the shield and spear, his legs heavy from the endless walking. He slumped against the mushroom's stalk, letting himself breathe.
That was when he felt it. A presence. A shift in the air.
He turned—and his blood ran cold.
Creeping toward him across the soil was a creature that looked like something from a nightmare. Its body was spiny, lumpy, with jagged ridges and twitching legs. Its mandibles clicked together as it lunged. Harry scrambled to his feet, barely raising his shield in time.
Bang! The impact sent him skidding backward. His shield quivered under the force.
Heart hammering, Harry gripped his spear. Then recognition struck—he had seen this before. His mother's biology book. A ladybug larva. Unlike the gentle, red-shelled adult, this stage was monstrous—ugly, predatory, with jaws built for tearing smaller insects apart.
The larva hissed and lunged again. Harry braced. His shield absorbed the strike, and in that instant he jabbed his spear sideways, piercing the larva's flank. It screeched, its legs thrashing as it recoiled.
Seizing the moment, Harry banged his spear against the shield, the sharp clang echoing through the grass. He spread his arms wide, trying to look larger, fiercer. "Stay back!" he shouted, though his voice was but a squeak.
The larva hesitated, mandibles twitching. Then, with a final screech, it retreated, dragging its injured body back into the undergrowth.
Harry collapsed to his knees, gasping. His hands shook, but a grin spread across his face. He had survived. Not by luck this time, but by fighting back.
For the first time since shrinking, Harry felt something new—hope.