Jumpy

Jumpy

It was the tiniest toad I had ever seen. Little red spots on its back wiggled as it crawled across the concrete on its stubby legs. When I touched its butt it hopped. I was fascinated by Jumpy, and that’s probably what attracted my brother’s attention.
“Where did you get that?” he asked after he rolled up on his Big Wheel and stood up.
“I found it here,” I said. “He was just crawling across the sidewalk. If you touch his butt he’ll jump.” I showed my brother the technique. To this day he is always looking for a better way to do things—the easy way. He touched the heel of his sneaker on the concrete behind Jumpy, the shadow of his foot engulfing the small creature.
“Don’t!” I screamed.
“Don’t worry, I’m not going to hurt him,” my brother said with a superior air of confidence. Precariously balanced on one foot, he touched his heel behind the toad again, and it jumped again.
“Stop! I pleaded.
“Relax. What could go wrong?”



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