Woolly was a sheep who liked to nibble.
She nibbled the tall grass. She nibbled the short grass. She nibbled the grass that grew between the rocks where nobody else bothered to look.
That was the thing about Woolly. She always nibbled just a little bit further.
One sunny morning, the whole flock grazed together on the green hillside. Ninety-nine other sheep stood close, their wool touching wool, warm and safe. The Shepherd sat on a rock nearby, humming a low song that Woolly could feel in her chest like a heartbeat.
But there was a patch of clover — just over there.
Woolly took three steps. She nibbled. Oh, it was sweet.
And there was another patch — just past that bush.
She took ten more steps. She nibbled again.
And look — little yellow flowers, just around that boulder!
She didn't mean to go far. Nobody ever means to go far. But nibble by nibble by nibble, the hill behind her grew small, and the Shepherd's hum grew quiet, and then—
It was gone.
Woolly lifted her head.
No flock. No hillside. No hum.
Just rocks and thorns and a sky that was turning gray.
"Baaaa?" she called.
Nothing called back.
The wind came and pushed her wool the wrong way and made her feel cold. Then the shadows came, filling up the spaces between the rocks.
Woolly walked one way. Dead end. She walked another way. More rocks. Her little hooves slipped on loose stones, and she tumbled — thump, roll, bump — right into a thorny bush.
"BAAAAAA!"
A thorn caught her wool and held on tight. She pulled and pulled, but the bush only grabbed more. Her beautiful puffy wool — the wool the Shepherd had washed in the stream just last week — was tangled and torn and full of sticky burrs.
Woolly stopped pulling.
She lay very still.
She was cold and stuck and the sky was almost dark, and she thought maybe nobody was coming. Who would leave ninety-nine warm, safe sheep for one little sheep who nibbled too far?
Then — something.
A sound. Far away. A hum.
Low and steady, like a heartbeat.
It got closer.
Woolly's ears went straight up.
Footsteps on stone. A lantern swinging, making the shadows jump away. And that voice — that voice she could feel in her chest before she could hear it with her ears.
"There you are."
The Shepherd knelt right down in the thorns. He didn't say, Why did you wander? He didn't say, Look at your wool. He just took the burrs out, one by one, gentle and slow, even when the thorns pricked his own hands.
One burr. Two. Five. Nine.
The last thorn let go, and Woolly was free.
The Shepherd picked her up — all of her, messy wool and muddy hooves and everything — and set her on his shoulders. Up high, where the wind couldn't push her wool the wrong way. Up high, where she could see the whole world and it wasn't scary at all.
He carried her like that all the way home.
And when they came over the last hill, Woolly saw them — ninety-nine sheep, all looking up. The Shepherd laughed, a big, bright laugh that bounced off the hills, and the other sheep came running, pressing their wool against her wool, warm and close.
That night, Woolly lay in the middle of the flock. The Shepherd sat on his rock nearby, humming that low song.
She could feel it in her chest.
She closed her eyes.
She stayed.
