Melon

Melon turns up partway along the road, riding on the back of someone who never knew he was there. Nobody decides to keep him. He simply doesn’t leave.

He is about as long as Mallow’s forearm, soft and green in a world full of shells, and he travels in loops: front end out, back end up to meet it, again and again. He eats leaves, sits on packs he shouldn’t, and squeaks when he is hungry, frightened, or left behind.

He doesn’t understand the journey, or why it matters. He understands warmth, and whose lap is best. It was Mallow who named him.