Where Is Rabbit?

Ozzie was halfway home when he felt it.

His hands were empty.

"Rabbit," he whispered. Then louder. "RABBIT!"

He checked under his seatbelt. He checked between the seats. He checked inside his shoe, which didn't make any sense, but he checked anyway.

Rabbit was gone.

Rabbit was not just any rabbit. He was a floppy, gray, worn-out rabbit with one ear that stuck up and one ear that flopped down. He smelled like toast and sleep. Ozzie had had him since forever.

"Mom," Ozzie said. His voice was small and wobbly. "I left Rabbit at the restaurant."

Mom looked in the rearview mirror. She saw Ozzie's face. She turned the car around.

Outside, the sky was going orange and purple. The streetlights were blinking on, one by one, like the town was opening its eyes for nighttime.

"What if they threw him away?" Ozzie said.

"Then we will look in every trash can," Mom said.

"What if someone took him?"

"Then we will ask very nicely for him back."

"What if he's scared?"

Mom was quiet for a second. "Then he's being brave until you get there."

Ozzie pressed his nose against the window and watched the dark come down.

The restaurant parking lot was almost empty. The big sign still glowed red. Inside, someone was stacking chairs on tables. The legs pointed up like a forest of upside-down trees.

A man with a mop saw them at the door. "We're closed, sorry."

"Please," Ozzie said. He could barely see over the counter. "I lost my rabbit."

The mop man looked down at him. "A real rabbit?"

"A stuffed rabbit. Gray. One ear up, one ear down. He smells like toast."

The mop man leaned on his mop and thought. "Hmm. Booth seven?"

Ozzie nodded so hard his whole body went with it.

"Wait here."

The mop man walked away, between the upside-down chair-trees, past the soda machine, around the corner. Ozzie held Mom's hand. He squeezed. She squeezed back.

It was quiet. The restaurant made ticking, humming sounds, like it was falling asleep too.

Then—footsteps.

The mop man came back around the corner. He was holding something gray and floppy. One ear up. One ear down.

"Found him behind the ketchup," the man said. "He was just sitting there. Keeping an eye on things."

Ozzie grabbed Rabbit.

He smooshed him right into his face. He smooshed him so hard that Rabbit's floppy ear went up his nose, and Ozzie laughed even though two seconds ago he had been ready to cry.

"Thank you," Mom said.

"Thank you thank you thank you," Ozzie said into Rabbit's belly, so it came out all mumbled and warm.

In the car, the sky was full dark now. Stars were out. Ozzie sat in his car seat with Rabbit on his lap. He tucked Rabbit under the seatbelt with him, right against his chest.

"Rabbit," he said quietly. "You can't just stay behind the ketchup. That's not where you live."

He pulled Rabbit closer.

"You live here."

Mom smiled in the rearview mirror. The streetlights blinked past, one by one, all the way home.

And Rabbit's floppy ear went up and down, up and down, with every breath Ozzie took.