And the frogs, for the first time, didn’t laugh. They just watched the old toad sludge off into the rain, heavier, slower, and utterly unbeatable.

Through the second hazard (Needle’s Eye—a narrow slot between two fallen logs), the sleek racers got stuck, their pads folding like wet paper. Grundel, with a mighty oof , wedged himself through, his loose skin squishing into the gap and popping out the other side.

The frogs laughed. The newts held their tiny sides. “You’ll sink!” they cried.

He didn’t float. He plodded —along the bottom of the torrent.

“How?” whispered a bedraggled frog.

The rain came down in silver sheets, turning the dry creek behind Old Mossy Hill into a roaring, muddy torrent. For the creatures of the forest floor, this was chaos—but for a grumpy, warty old toad named Grundel, it was the greatest morning of the year.