Traffick Boss stands ankle-deep in mud, shovel in hand, breath visible in the chilly air as he digs his “path to China.” Around him, the forest is stark and quiet, save for the distant chatter of crows and the scurrying of squirrels nearby. A frost-tinged breeze stirs the bare branches above, while the swamp frog, buried in the mud for warmth, watches with one sleepy eye open, barely croaking in disapproval. Boss mutters about “almost there” as he scoops up another shovelful, completely oblivious to the creeping cold and the approaching winter.

Traffick Boss glances over, catching the squirrel’s flicking tail. He scoffs, shoveling another clump of cold, wet soil.

Traffick Boss: “Winter? I’m on a mission here! China’s not waiting for spring!”

The squirrel rolls its eyes, tail swishing faster, then dives back into its stash, muttering a silent, squirrell