You kneel down in the roots and put the key in the little door. It fits!! It turns with a click like it's been waiting for you.

The door swings open. You have to lie on your stomach to fit, but once you wiggle through, the tunnel gets bigger and bigger until you can stand up. There are stairs made of roots going down, and the walls are covered with little mushrooms that glow green like the stars on your ceiling.

At the bottom the tunnel splits in two. From the LEFT tunnel comes a smell like cinnamon rolls. From the RIGHT tunnel comes a sound like somebody snoring. A BIG somebody.

Which way?

• Follow the cinnamon smell. (Obviously.)
• Go see who's snoring.

The cinnamon tunnel opens up into a round kitchen with a little woodstove, a table with a checkered tablecloth, and shelves full of jars of acorns labeled by YEAR. Standing at the stove is a badger. She is wearing an apron and glasses on a chain.

"Well, you took your time," the badger says without turning around. "Your grandfather always came on Saturdays. Every Saturday for fifty years, and then he got too big for the door. Sit, sit."

She puts down a plate with the biggest cinnamon roll you have ever seen. It's steaming. It has frosting on it that's melting down the sides.

"Eat up," she says. "Then we'll talk."

• EAT THE CINNAMON ROLL.
• Say "No thank you, ma'am," politely, and ask her how she knows Grandpa.

You tiptoe down the right tunnel. The snoring gets louder and louder until the walls are shaking and little bits of dirt are falling on your head.

Then you see him. It's a MOLE. But not a regular mole. This mole is the size of a CAR. He's curled up asleep in front of a round green door with a brass knocker, and every time he breathes out, your hair blows back.

There's just enough room to squeeze past him to the door.

• Tiptoe past him. Very, very quietly.
• NOPE. Run all the way back to the treehouse and start over.

You eat the whole thing. It's the best cinnamon roll in the history of the universe.

Then you notice the table is getting taller. And the chair is getting bigger. And the badger is getting bigger. Wait, no. YOU'RE getting SMALLER.

"Oh dear," says the badger. "I always forget. Those are for badgers."

By the time it stops you are exactly the size of a squirrel. On the bright side, you fit through the little door now. On the other side, the red squirrel from before is waiting for you with the tag. "Welcome to the neighborhood," he says. "You get used to it. The nuts are good."

(It wears off by supper. Mostly.)

The badger turns around and looks at you over her glasses for a long time.

"Polite," she says. "Just like him." She takes off her apron. "Your grandfather found that door when he was your age. He came down every Saturday and drew maps of every tunnel in this whole forest. Then one day he grew too big to fit. He was very sad. So he built a treehouse right on top of us, so he could still be close. And he left the key for whoever was next."

She reaches up on the top shelf and hands you an old notebook with a cracked leather cover. Inside are MAPS. Hundreds of them. Tunnels and creeks and secret doors, all in pencil, all labeled in handwriting you know.

On the first page it says: FOR WHOEVER IS NEXT. KEEP DRAWING. — G.

That night at supper, you don't say anything. But when Grandpa passes the potatoes, he winks.

You tiptoe. You hold your breath. You are almost past him when you step on a root and it goes SQUEEEEAK.

The giant mole opens one eye. Then the other eye. He looks at you.

"...Company?" he says. His voice is very deep and very surprised. "Nobody visits anymore. I was just napping. I nap a lot. There's not much else to do." He sniffs. "Do you... play checkers?"

You DO play checkers. You're actually pretty good.

You play eleven games on a board made out of a tree stump with bottle caps for pieces. The mole wins six. You're pretty sure he's not cheating but his paws are very big so it's hard to tell. When you finally say you have to go home for supper, his whiskers droop.

"Will you come back?" he asks.

You give him your word. And the next Saturday, you do.