Pinky

Pinky loves to help. It is the softest, warmest thing about Pinky.

So when Lonny said, "Will you play with me?" Pinky said yes.

When Oopsy said, "Will you help me fix this?" Pinky said yes.

When Handy said, "Will you carry these?" and Muddle said, "Will you hold this?" and Zippy said, "Will you come NOW?" Pinky said yes, and yes, and yes.

By teatime, Pinky had said yes ninety-nine times.

Pinky had not had breakfast. Pinky had not had a sit-down. Pinky's arms were full of other fluffs' things, and Pinky's smile had gone thin and wobbly at the edges, like candyfloss left out in the rain.

Snuggs found Pinky in the doorway, holding everything.

"Pinky," said Snuggs gently, "who's looking after you?"

And Pinky opened her mouth to say I'm fine — and burst into tears instead.

Snuggs didn't say anything clever. Snuggs just took the armful of things and put it down, and sat beside Pinky on the step.

"Cross your arms," said Snuggs. "Like this. Now tap your shoulders. Left. Right. Left. Right. Slow as a butterfly."

Pinky tapped. Left, right, left, right. Slowly, the wobbly feeling stopped rushing about inside her and settled down somewhere quieter.

"I didn't want anyone to be sad," Pinky said at last.

"I know," said Snuggs. "But you're somebody too. If you give away every single yes, there's none left for you."

The next morning, Lonny asked Pinky to play.

Pinky took a breath. "Not right now," Pinky said. "I'm having my breakfast. Come and find me after?"

And Lonny said, "Okay!" and skipped off, perfectly happy — because a not right now is not the same as a no forever.

Pinky ate her breakfast. All of it. Sitting down.