In a small town where every resident was required by law to wear a live squirrel as a hat, Luis struggled. He was allergic to fur, and no matter how many hypoallergenic squirrels he tried, his head was always a sneezing volcano. Town council meetings echoed with nothing but laughter when he proposed alternatives, like hats shaped like squirrels or, heaven forbid, a clean-shaven head.
One day, Luis met Marjorie, who was rumored to have the fastest squirrel in town, a hyperactive blur named Bolt. But when they crossed paths in the park, Bolt wasn’t running. Marjorie wasn’t wearing him. She confessed her squirrel had run away months ago, and she’d been strapping tufts of dryer lint to her head to pass inspections.
Luis removed his wheezing squirrel and threw it to the trees. As the fur settled on the breeze, Marjorie grinned and handed him a handful of lint. The two walked off, hatless and sneezing freely, while above, squirrels whispered of quiet rebellion.
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