First Coat of Morning

Zoo Vegas never slept, but it did slow down just before sunrise — and that was Ms. Art Sheep's favorite hour.

She stood at the tall window of her classroom, blue mask already on, black-and-blue dress perfectly pressed. Below, the city shimmered. Neon signs flickered over fox-eared vendors sweeping sidewalks. A pair of rhino officers strolled past a glowing donut cart. Somewhere a taxi honked three times, then went quiet.

"Another gorgeous mess," she said warmly, pressing one hoof to the glass.

Behind her, the first students were filing in — twelve kids in sharp blue-and-black supersuits, backpacks bouncing, voices already tumbling over each other.

"Ms. Art Sheep! Can we use the new paint today?" called a small rabbit girl with enormous eyes.

"That depends," Ms. Art Sheep said, turning with a smile, "on whether you can promise me you'll be careful."

Nobody promised. Not yet.

Fifty Shades of Wrong

Nobody promised. But Pip did something worse — she opened the paint anyway.

The small rabbit girl, whose name was Pip, had grabbed the jar from the supply shelf while Ms. Art Sheep stepped into the hall to answer a knock at the door. The paint was a deep, electric blue inside a plain glass jar with no label. Pip twisted the lid open just a little.

That was enough.

The paint moved on its own — not slowly, not politely. It poured itself straight down the desk leg and spread across the floor like it had places to be. Pip dropped the jar. The lid spun away. More paint gushed out, and it didn't stop at the floorboards. It climbed the walls in thick, wet ribbons.

"Pip!" shouted a boy with tiger-stripe markings, stumbling backward onto a chair.

The paint shot across the ceiling. It rolled right out the open window.

From the hallway, Ms. Art Sheep heard screaming.

She turned and saw a solid sheet of blue sliding down the school's front wall — and still spreading, fast, toward the street below.