Wobbly

It was the night before the Big Trip, and Wobbly was awake.

What if I forget my bag?

What if the bus goes without me?

What if everyone has a friend to sit with and I don't?

What if it rains? What if I'm sick? What if, what if, what if—

The what-ifs came one after another, like a queue of them stretching out of the bedroom door and down the stairs, each one waiting politely for its turn to be worried about.

Wobbly sat up. The room was dark and full of shapes.

So Wobbly did the counting.

Five things I can see. The window. The curtain. A sock. The door handle, shining a bit. The moon.

Four things I can hear. The wind. The fridge humming. A bird that had got its times muddled. My own breathing.

Three things I can touch. The blanket. The cold bit of the pillow. My own paw.

Two things I can smell. Clean sheets. Toast from ages ago.

One thing I can taste. Toothpaste, mostly.

And the room stopped being full of shapes and went back to being a room.

Wobbly lay down. The what-ifs were still queueing, but they were quieter now, and Wobbly could look at them properly instead of being chased by them.

What if I forget my bag? — Then I would pack it now, and put it by the door.

So Wobbly did.

What if nobody sits with me? — Then I would ask Muddle. Muddle always says yes.

What if it rains?

Wobbly stopped. And then Wobbly asked a brand new question, one that had never once been in the queue.

What if... it goes okay?

It was a strange, light, unfamiliar sort of thought, and it did not feel safe the way worrying does. But Wobbly held on to it anyway, all the way down into sleep.

It rained, as it happens. Just a bit, in the afternoon.