Tom's Tiny Torch

Tom had a torch. It was small and yellow and it had a button on the end, and when you pressed the button it went click.

Click on. Click off.

Tom loved his torch. He loved it in the daytime, when it did not do very much, and he loved it even more at night, when it did everything.

Tonight it had a job.

There was a noise under the bed. A small noise. A sort of scuffle, scuffle, scuffle, and then a quiet, and then scuffle again.

"Torch," said Tom, "we're going in."

Click on.

The yellow circle of light slid across the floor. It found a sock. It found a crayon. It found the edge of the bed and went under, and under the bed were the dusty shapes of a shoebox, a lost puzzle piece, and a lot of nothing.

Scuffle, scuffle.

"Hello?" said Tom.

Click off. He waited. Scuffle.

Click on. The light went further. And there, right at the back, by the wall, were two round eyes shining back at him, and above the eyes two little ears, and around the eyes a soft grey mask.

It was a raccoon. A small one. It was holding Tom's other sock, and it looked as surprised to be found as Tom was to find it.

"Oh," said Tom. "Hello."

The raccoon blinked in the torchlight. It did not run. It did not seem to be the running kind. It just sat there in the circle of yellow, hugging the sock, and after a moment it yawned, which is a thing that is hard to be frightened of.

"Are you lost?" asked Tom.

The raccoon looked at the sock, and then at Tom, and seemed to be saying: I was looking for somewhere soft.

Tom understood that. He had often looked for somewhere soft.

Click off. In the dark, Tom thought. Then click on, and he had an idea.

He took his torch and he walked the yellow circle slowly across the floor, out from under the bed, over the crayon, past the sock, to the basket in the corner where his old teddy and his old blanket lived. He shone the light into the basket. It was very soft in there.

The raccoon watched the circle go. Then, quietly, it followed it, the way you follow a path, dragging the sock, until it reached the basket and climbed in and turned round twice and lay down on top of the old blanket with the sock under its chin.

Click off.

"Better?" whispered Tom.

Scuffle. Then nothing. Then a tiny, tiny snore.

Tom got back into bed. He held the torch against his chest, the way he always did. Click on: the ceiling, with its yellow circle. Click off: the dark. Click on. Click off. The circle got smaller each time, because Tom's thumb was getting slower, and the clicks got further apart, and in between them was a soft dark full of snoring that was not his.

Click on.

Click... off.

And the torch, which had done its job, slid down under his arm and went to sleep too, and in the morning it was still there, and so was the raccoon, and so, for once, were both of Tom's socks.