Before the Bear could close the door, she had clambered up his leg, onto his shoulder, and was waving the dandelion at the ceiling.

He didn't reach for his newspaper. He didn't reach for his tea.

He opened the door.

“Abracadabra! Turn the jam jar into a frog!”

The Bear sighed—a long, loving, resigned sigh that ruffled his own fur. He set down the honey. He folded the newspaper. He braced himself.

“Bear! Bear! BEAR!” Masha stood on the porch, one boot on, one boot off, her hair a halo of static electricity. In her hands, she held a single, slightly squashed dandelion. “I had a dream! A very important dream! In the dream, you were sad because you didn’t have a hat. A royal hat. A crown! So I went to find you one, but the goat ate it, so then I found this flower, but it’s not a crown, it’s a wand ! Watch!”

The Bear looked at the chaotic, noisy, impossible little girl. He looked at the dent in his woodpile, the stolen honey dipper in her pocket, and the dandelion seeds now floating through his clean kitchen.