At dinnertime, the wooden trunk was spilled open. The frog lay in a mess of letters on the floor, wailing.

Every so often, he'd lift a letter to his face and read it silently with wobbly lips. Then he'd start sobbing again, the note clutched to his chest. His face was a mask of hopelessness.

But there was some hope. The frog could read. And that meant I could write him a letter.