Blue Backpack, Two Beds

Blue Backpack, Two Beds

On Friday afternoon, Leo knelt on the floor in Mom's home with his small blue backpack open like a hungry mouth. Fox sat beside him, tail swishing. "Time to pack," said Leo. "We have two homes, so we need a very good bag."

Rachel came in with a folded pair of pajamas. "Blue ones," she said, smiling. Leo tucked them in. "Dad has a bed for me," he said. "And I have a bed here. Both are mine." Rachel nodded. "Both are yours."

Leo looked around the room. The backpack had space left, as round and roomy as a pumpkin. "What else does a boy need for the trip?" he asked Fox. Fox tilted his head, which meant, in fox, one more thing.

Leo spun around. On the wall hung his drawn maps, and by the door sat his soccer ball. There was only room for one. He hugged the backpack and frowned the small, serious frown of a five-year-old with a big decision.

Rachel waited, patient as a warm blanket. Leo stood very still. Fox pressed against his leg. "Okay," Leo said, taking a deep breath. "I know exactly what goes in first."

What does Leo put in his backpack first?