Jayme Lawson The Penguin Verified May 2026

Jayme looked down at her ugly snow boots. She looked at Popsicle, who gave a solemn nod. And for the first time in her life, she smiled—a wide, genuine, slightly frosty smile.

The penguin led her through the sleeping city, past the glowing bakery, past the silent fountain in the park, to the old abandoned icehouse by the river. The door was rusted shut, but as Jayme approached, the metal groaned. Frost spiraled out from her fingertips. With a single push, the door flew open. jayme lawson the penguin

Over the next week, the penguin—whom she reluctantly named Popsicle—refused to leave. It followed her to the library, waited outside the door, and slid on its belly across the condensation trail she left behind. It stole her frozen peas and tucked them under its wing. It slept on a bag of ice at the foot of her bed. Jayme looked down at her ugly snow boots

Jayme stopped. The penguin stopped. It turned its head, fixed her with a bright, bead-like eye, and then looked pointedly down at her boots. A single, crystalline drop of water slid from her heel onto the pavement. The penguin led her through the sleeping city,

“I don’t understand,” she stammered, her breath misting in the air.

The trouble began on a Tuesday. She was walking home from the bus stop when she saw it: a puddle. Not a rain puddle, but a long, glistening smear of meltwater on the sidewalk. And at the end of the smear, waddling with purpose toward a storm drain, was a small, disgruntled-looking penguin.

They were cold. Not a little chilly, not the kind of cold you fix with a thick pair of socks. It was a deep, ancient, polar cold that radiated from her bones. Her toes were perpetually the color of a winter sky, and the floor around her favorite armchair was permanently damp from the slow melt of an invisible frost.