From the mossy bank of the creek, the wolf in a cheap newsboy cap—the one the cops called “The Big Bad”—was pacing. His name was Vernon, and he was tired. Tired of being the fall guy. Tired of running from the pig detective with the badge. Tired of the way the forest whispered his name like a curse.

The raccoons started clapping. The weasel sniffled with pride. Even the chipmunks stopped giggling and started chanting, “Be pre-pared! Be pre-pared!”

But for now, under the bridge, the gang sang their song, off-key but full of hope. And Flick, the squirrel who kept the records, wrote one final note:

The raccoons exchanged nervous glances. The weasel whispered, “But who’s the target?”

The chipmunks started humming a jaunty tune. Flick wrote: “Phase four? We’ve never reached Phase three in any plan ever.”

Flick scribbled: “Big score. Possibly delusional.”

But Vernon wasn’t listening. He was already pacing again, arms wide, voice rising like a bad community theater villain. “Because when we’re done, they’ll know our names. Not ‘The Big Bad Wolf’—no. They’ll say, ‘That’s Vernon, the wolf who finally had the sense to be prepared.’”