Slow-Poke Duckling crossed the barnyard with his head down, counting his steps the way he always did. He wanted to be the quickest duckling in the entire barnyard, but right now he was still the slowest. The other animals knew it. They had always known it. A young rabbit hopped through the fence near the pond, bright running shoes tied to his front paws with twine. The other animals gathered to look. The rabbit kicked up his heels and flashed the shoes at everyone, then pointed one paw straight at Slow-Poke. "Even with weights on, I could beat you backwards," the rabbit said. The chickens clucked. The ducks turned to stare. Slow-Poke felt his chest tighten. The rabbit hopped to the black and white flag stuck in the ground by the water's edge. "Race starts here," he said. "Unless you're too slow to try." The whole barnyard waited. Slow-Poke's feet felt stuck in the dirt. If he walked away now, they would remember this spot forever. They would remember him walking away. Slow-Poke lifted his head and waddled forward. His legs shook, but he kept moving until he stood beside the flag. The rabbit grinned. The other animals went quiet. Slow-Poke didn't say anything. He just planted his feet and waited for the rabbit to stop talking and start running.

Slow-Poke stood at the flag with his feet planted in the dirt. The rabbit stretched his fancy shoes in front of him, making sure everyone could see them. The other animals pressed closer, waiting for the race to start. A shadow passed over Slow-Poke. Freddy Goose stepped between him and the rabbit, his big orange feet kicking up dust. Freddy grabbed the checkered flag from the ground and held it high over his head. "This race doesn't count," Freddy honked. "Not without a real challenge." He strutted toward the old farm shed and planted the flag in front of it. "I'm racing whoever wants to prove something. The rabbit can watch from the fence with everyone else." The rabbit's ears flattened. He looked at his shoes, then at Freddy, then at the crowd pressing against the weathered fence rails. The chickens shifted their attention to Freddy. The ducks turned away from the rabbit. Slow-Poke felt his chest loosen, then tighten again in a different way. The race he had forced himself to accept was gone. But Freddy had taken it. Slow-Poke walked toward the shed. Freddy's laugh cut through the barnyard, the same laugh Slow-Poke had catalogued from every other time. Freddy wasn't looking at him yet. He was still facing the crowd, wings spread wide, holding the flag like he owned it. Slow-Poke stopped three feet from the shed and spoke loud enough for everyone to hear. "Then race me." Freddy's neck twisted around. His laugh died in his throat. The other animals went quiet. Slow-Poke didn't move. He had wanted to beat the rabbit to prove he wasn't afraid. Now he had asked for something worse.

Freddy's beak opened. The crowd leaned forward against the fence. Slow-Poke felt his heart beating in his webbed feet. Then Mrs. Duck pushed through the other animals, her wings spread wide, and stepped between them. She didn't say anything at first. She walked to the shed where Freddy had planted his flag and pulled it from the ground. Then she carried it past the rabbit, past the chickens pressing against the weathered fence, all the way to the painted wooden stand near the barn. She climbed the steps and set the flag down on the platform. From up there, she could see every animal in the barnyard. Slow-Poke watched her turn and look directly at him. "No racing today," Mrs. Duck said. Her voice wasn't loud, but it carried. "Not until someone explains why my son is standing in front of a shed looking like he wants to break his neck." The other ducks went quiet. The chickens stopped clucking. Freddy shifted his weight from one orange foot to the other but didn't say anything. The rabbit with the fancy shoes took three steps backward. Mrs. Duck stayed on the platform, waiting. Slow-Poke felt every eye turn toward him. This wasn't how winning was supposed to look. He had imagined standing at a finish line marked with checkered flags while everyone watched him cross first. Instead, his mother stood above them all holding the race itself in her wings like something she could take away. He could tell her he didn't need her help. He could walk away and let Freddy keep laughing. Or he could stay quiet and let her decide for him. He looked at the shed, then at Freddy, then back at his mother on the stand. "I challenged him," Slow-Poke said. "I want to race." Mrs. Duck looked at him for a long moment. Then she picked up the flag, carried it down the steps, and walked it back to the shed. She planted it in the dirt where Freddy had put it and stepped aside. The finish line was his again.