“We’ve been small-time,” Vernon said, spitting a toothpick into the creek. “Knocking over bird feeders. Stealing picnic baskets. But that ends tonight. We’re going to pull the biggest score this forest has ever seen.”
But for now, under the bridge, the gang sang their song, off-key but full of hope. And Flick, the squirrel who kept the records, wrote one final note: be prepared hoodwinked song
“All right, listen up,” Vernon growled, snapping his claws. A dozen mismatched forest creatures shuffled closer: raccoons with masks pulled down, a weasel with a nervous twitch, three chipmunks who couldn’t stop giggling. Flick stayed in the branches above, taking notes. He was the only one who brought a pencil. “We’ve been small-time