Mia and the Sleepy Dragon
Mia found the dragon behind the rosebush. He was small—about the size of her backpack—and his scales were the color of blueberries. He yawned, and a tiny puff of smoke came out. "I'm too tired to fly home," he said.
"Where do you live?" Mia asked. The dragon pointed up with one claw. "On the hill, in the old oak tree. But it's so far, and my wings are too sleepy." Mia thought for a moment. "I can help you," she said.
She found her wagon in the garage. It had one squeaky wheel, but it rolled. The dragon climbed in and curled up on an old towel. "This is perfect," he said. Mia pulled the wagon down the sidewalk. The wheel squeaked a little song.
They went past the mailbox, past the lamp that was just turning on, and up the path to the hill. The dragon's eyes were half-closed. "I like wagon rides," he murmured. "Me too," said Mia.
At the oak tree, the dragon hopped out. His little nest was tucked in the roots—a pile of soft moss and four smooth stones. "Thank you, Mia," he said. He gave her a stone. It was warm, like it had been sitting in the sun.
"Will you come back?" Mia asked. The dragon nodded. "Tomorrow night. I'll wait by the rosebush." He yawned again—no smoke this time, just a sleepy sound. Then he curled into his nest and closed his eyes.
Mia walked home with the stone in her pocket. It still felt warm. She put it on her nightstand, right next to her lamp. When she turned off the light, the stone seemed to glow just a little—or maybe that was the moonlight.
Outside, the dragon was already asleep. And so, a moment later, was Mia.
The end. Sleep well.