Winter of Five

The Cozy Canopy

A sharp, brassy chill bit the air as the first quiet flakes began to gather, soft as down. Bundling themselves against the frost, the friends ventured outside, their minds set on a shared pot of hot chocolate and good company.

They made their way to "Dealer’s Choice," the neighborhood eatery named for its one golden rule: everyone took turns cooking, and no one ever knew what would be on the menu. The singular exception to this rule was birthdays, which were strictly and universally celebrated with taco salad. Beyond that solitary tradition, there was no such thing as a "usual order." They simply showed up to enjoy whatever their neighbor had dreamed up.

On fine days and clear evenings, diners loved to sit out on the porch. If you looked straight up, the tips of the trees seemed to lean in together, framing a perfect circle of sky—a spectacular view when the sun or moon shone directly through the clearing in the canopy.

But when the weather turned bitter and wet, the magic moved indoors. A small, lively fire crackled in the hearth, filling the room with flickering light and popping warmth. Near the entrance stood a wooden trunk packed with soft blankets and a collection of "really good slippers." They were considered truly excellent slippers because they magically expanded or shrank to fit anyone perfectly—whether those feet happened to have toes, claws, scales, feathers, or fur.

A Warm Welcome

On this particular winter morning, it was Robin the Robin’s turn behind the stove.

Robin had lived in the neighborhood much longer than Mousey, Clementine Pennyfoot, or Teddy Bearon. She was the local postmaster, delivering letters gripped tightly in her bright beak, and she possessed a beautiful knack for using big, delicious words. Whenever the friends struggled to articulate a heavy feeling deep in their chests, talking to Robin always cleared the fog. She just knew words. More importantly, she knew how to listen so that others could find their own.

Robin was bustling behind the old oak counter when the friends blustered through the front door, bringing a sharp gust of frigid air with them. At the chime of the overhead bell, she ruffled her feathers and looked up with a bright eye.

“Brrr! I’ve got hot chocolate for your noses and a roaring fire for your toes!” Robin piped cheerfully. “Come in, come in, friends!”

The trio nodded in silent gratitude, their faces still too frozen to form proper words. They shuffled toward the hearth, the floorboards of Dealer’s Choice groaning loudly beneath them. The old wood creaked like that in every season, a familiar, steady music that you stopped noticing after your first few steps inside.

Looking up from the Dealer’s Choice Neighborhood Restaurant