Loveland Frogman hammered a wooden sign into the soft mud. The painted frog grinned back at him. He wanted the whole swamp to hear his tales, to carry them past the reeds and into every burrow. Today he would start small. Today he just needed someone, anyone, to sit and listen. He arranged bright cushions in a wide ring around a stone fire pit. He stacked dry twigs and lit a small, crackling flame. Then he waited. No one came. A vibrant frog hopped across one cushion, blinked, and leapt away. A snapping turtle peeked from the water, scowled, and sank back under with a wet plop. Frogman's shoulders drooped. He climbed onto a mossy stump and cleared his throat. "Long ago," he began, loud enough to shake the cattails, "the swamp swallowed a star!" A heron froze mid-step. Two glowing eyes blinked from a fern. Slowly, curious shapes crept toward the warm firelight. By the time the flames burned low, three small creatures sat on the cushions, leaning close. Frogman had his first audience. But more eyes watched from the dark beyond the ring—waiting to see if his tales were worth the trip.