Slow-Poke Duckling's Arc

Chapter 6 of 9

The day after the walk-home race, Slow-Poke could not stop thinking. Freddy had been kind. Kindness did not feed the grudge in his chest. He wanted to win. He wanted them all to watch. So at dawn he waddled out alone, looking for the spot where Freddy practiced. He found it past the barn. A bright orange cone stood guard at one end of a long stretch of dirt. A dark rubber mat was rolled out flat, marking the start. Slow-Poke hid behind the cone and crouched low. Freddy did not see him. Freddy was already running. Slow-Poke watched. Freddy's orange boots flashed. One boot, two boot. Then Slow-Poke saw it. On every third step, Freddy's left boot snagged the dirt. A tiny stutter. A skip in the tape, like an old worn-out video reel catching on itself. Freddy did not notice. He counted past the hitch. But it was there. Every third step. A flaw. Slow-Poke's heart pounded. He could use this. If he broke Freddy's rhythm at the start — a honk, a shout, a flung pebble — Freddy would stumble. Slow-Poke could win. Not fair. But won. He pictured the finish line. He pictured the crowd. He pictured Freddy walking back through the dust to stand beside him. Slow-Poke stayed behind the cone a long time. Then he stood up and waddled home. He had not spoken to Freddy. He had not thrown the pebble. But he had kept the secret, folded tight inside him like a stone. He would decide later. The grudge had a weapon now, and he was not ready to put it down.