The Moonlight Delivery Truck

Ben heard the truck as the streetlights blinked on.

Rumble-rumble, soft and low.

It rolled to his gate carrying silver boxes tied with string. On the side, golden letters read: Moonlight Deliveries.

The driver was a mouse in a blue cap.

“Good evening,” said the mouse. “My map has folded itself into a paper boat. Do you know this street?”

“Yes,” said Ben.

“Then I need a helper.”

Ben climbed into the passenger seat. The truck smelled like clean blankets and toast.

“First delivery,” said the mouse. “One yawn for Number Seven.”

The truck rolled slowly. At Number Seven, Ben opened a silver box. A yawn floated out, round and soft as a bubble. It drifted through the window.

Inside, a baby yawned so widely that even Ben yawned too.

“Excellent,” said the mouse.

“Next?”

The mouse unfolded the map-boat. It showed streets as silver threads and houses as little squares of warm light.

“Do all houses get the same delivery?” Ben asked.

“No,” said the mouse. “Bedtime needs are different. Some need a yawn. Some need a brave thought. Some need help putting the day down.”

Ben liked the sound of putting the day down. His day still felt busy in his pockets.

“One dream feather for the yellow house.”

At the yellow house, Sam sat awake in bed.

“Tomorrow is swimming lesson day,” Sam whispered. “My thoughts keep splashing.”

Ben placed the feather on Sam’s pillow.

“This helps tonight be tonight,” he said.

Sam looked at Ben through the open window. “Will tomorrow still come?”

“Yes,” Ben said. “But it can wait outside until morning.”

Sam smiled at that. He imagined tomorrow sitting politely on the porch with a towel over its knees.

Sam touched the feather. His shoulders softened.

“Tonight be tonight,” he repeated.

The feather glowed once.

Back in the truck, the mouse checked the map-boat. “Last delivery. One quiet blanket for the house with the moon wind chime.”

“That is my house,” said Ben.

The truck rumbled home. It was barely louder than a purr now.

At Ben’s gate, the mouse handed him the final box. Inside was a blue blanket stitched with tiny roads that led to tiny stars.

“For the helper,” said the mouse.

“Does the truck sleep too?”

“Every good truck parks when the route is done.”

The Moonlight Delivery Truck rolled under the streetlamp, gave one final rumble, and went still. The mouse tipped his cap over his eyes.

Ben carried the blanket inside.

In bed, he traced a stitched road with one finger. It curved over a bridge, around a little house, and up to a star.

Outside, the truck rested.

The street rested.

Even the folded map rested.

Ben pulled the blanket to his chin and followed the road into sleep.