Jayme stopped. The penguin stopped. It turned its head, fixed her with a bright, bead-like eye, and then looked pointedly down at her boots. A single, crystalline drop of water slid from her heel onto the pavement.
Jayme looked down at her ugly snow boots. She looked at Popsicle, who gave a solemn nod. And for the first time in her life, she smiled—a wide, genuine, slightly frosty smile. jayme lawson the penguin
Jayme Lawson was, by all accounts, a perfectly ordinary woman. She lived in a small, perfectly organized apartment, worked a perfectly quiet job as a library cataloger, and took her perfectly bland lunch at precisely 12:17 PM each day. Jayme stopped
Over the next week, the penguin—whom she reluctantly named Popsicle—refused to leave. It followed her to the library, waited outside the door, and slid on its belly across the condensation trail she left behind. It stole her frozen peas and tucked them under its wing. It slept on a bag of ice at the foot of her bed. A single, crystalline drop of water slid from
The trouble began on a Tuesday. She was walking home from the bus stop when she saw it: a puddle. Not a rain puddle, but a long, glistening smear of meltwater on the sidewalk. And at the end of the smear, waddling with purpose toward a storm drain, was a small, disgruntled-looking penguin.
One night, as Jayme sat reading, Popsicle hopped onto her lap, pecked her kneecap sharply, and waddled to the door. It did this seven times. Finally, sighing, she followed.