Mole snorted. “Help how? You’ve never helped anything but your own belly.”
Lala lay in the dust, cold and ashamed. For the first time, she realized: Being wicked hadn’t made her powerful. It had made her alone.
If Squirrel buried a nut, Lala dug it up and laughed. If Rabbit built a cozy den, Lala blocked the door with mud. When Bird sang a dawn chorus, Lala shook the branches and shrieked, “Off-key!” Lala believed that being clever meant making others feel small.
“Or we fight for scraps,” growled Fox.
“No,” said Lala. “I’m the same weasel. But I learned that ‘wicked’ is just speed without kindness. And speed without kindness runs in circles—fast, but going nowhere.”