The Shortcut

Two boys take a shortcut on the way home.


Seven-year-olds Toby and Max had made a pact: Never take the long way home again. Their backpacks bounced with every step as they giggled and trudged into the woods behind their school, convinced this shortcut would shave off at least seven whole minutes. Maybe eight if Max didn’t stop to look at squirrels.


“Do you hear that?” Toby whispered, slowing down.


Max turned, eyes wide. “What?”



“Someone is following us,” Toby said, his voice barely above a breath.



Max froze. “I can hear heavy breathing.”



They looked at each other, eyes the size of soccer balls.



“RUN!” Max screamed.



And they did—dropping lunchboxes, barreling through sticks and leaves, Max somehow losing a shoe, both convinced the woods were now a horror movie.



Twigs snapped behind them.



“I KNEW I shouldn’t have eaten that last pudding cup!” Toby wheezed mid-sprint.



“You said it was sugar-free!”



They exploded out of the woods like cartoon characters, collapsing on a patch of grass near the sidewalk, panting, sweating, wild-eyed.



And then—



“WHOOF!”



They were knocked flat.



“A MONSTER!” Max shrieked.



“No—it’s—it’s—ACK, it’s licking my eye!”



It was the biggest, floppiest, most joyful golden retriever either of them had ever seen. Its tail wagged like a metronome on fast-forward, its tongue conducting a full symphony of slobber.



“She followed us?” Toby gasped between giggles.



“Guess we smelled like peanut butter,” Max grinned, wiping his cheek.



The dog flopped between them, belly-up and proud.



Toby patted her. “Best monster ever.”



They named her Waffles.



And took the long way home after that.



Just in case.