Once upon a time, a little old woman and a little old man lived together in a little old house at the end of a little old lane. They had no children. The house was quiet in the way that houses get when two people have run out of new things to say to each other. Not unhappy. Just quiet.
One afternoon, the little old woman decided to make a gingerbread man. No real reason. Something to do. She mixed the flour and the molasses and the ginger and the sugar, and she rolled out the dough and cut out a little man shape, about yea big. She gave him two raisin eyes and a currant mouth and three little buttons down his front. She put him in the oven and sat down to wait.
A few minutes later, she heard a tiny knocking sound. Coming from inside the oven.
She opened the door.
Out he jumped — off the baking sheet, across the kitchen floor, past the little old woman's ankles, past the little old man's chair, and straight out the front door.
The little old woman ran after him. The little old man ran after her.
"Stop!" they cried. "Stop! Come back!"
The Gingerbread Man looked over his shoulder and laughed — a high, crumbly little laugh — and he called out:
"Run, run, as fast as you can! You can't catch me — I'm the Gingerbread Man!"
And they couldn't catch him.
He ran down the lane and past a cow standing by a fence, chewing her cud and minding her own business.
The cow blinked. Then she started running.
"Stop!" said the cow. "You look delicious!"
The Gingerbread Man laughed his crumbly laugh.
"I've run from a little old woman and a little old man, and I'll run from you too! Run, run, as fast as you can! You can't catch me — I'm the Gingerbread Man!"
And the cow couldn't catch him.
He ran past a horse in a field, who lifted his great head and saw a cookie sprinting down the road with a cow and two old people huffing along behind it.
The horse started running. Horses are fast. But the Gingerbread Man was faster.
"Stop!" said the horse.
"I've run from a little old woman, and a little old man, and a cow — and I'll run from you too! Run, run, as fast as you can! You can't catch me — I'm the Gingerbread Man!"
And the horse couldn't catch him.
He ran past a farmer working in his field, who dropped his hoe and stared.
"What in the —"
The farmer started running. Behind him came the horse. Behind the horse came the cow. Behind the cow came the little old woman and the little old man, who were really not built for this.
The Gingerbread Man looked back at the whole parade of them and he had never been happier in his life. He was five inches of flour and sugar and spice, and he was outrunning the world.
"I've run from a little old woman, and a little old man, and a cow, and a horse, and a farmer — and I'll run from you all! Run, run, as fast as you can! You can't catch me — I'm the Gingerbread Man!"
And nobody could catch him.
He knew what he was. Made of dough. Rain would soften him. A hard fall would break him. He'd be stale by Friday. He knew all of this the way you know the weather — acknowledged it, didn't dwell on it. He was alive and he could run and he was the fastest thing on this road and that was plenty.
Then he came to the river.
Wide, deep, moving fast. He stopped at the bank. Behind him, getting closer: the farmer, the horse, the cow, the two old people.
A fox was sitting by the water's edge. She had been sitting there for some time. Very relaxed. Very still.
"Well," said the fox. "You seem to be in a bit of trouble."
"I need to cross the river."
"Hop on my tail. I'll swim you across."
"How do I know you won't eat me?"
The fox smiled. Not a big smile. Just enough. "I eat mice and rabbits and things like that. Gingerbread isn't really my thing."
Specific. Calm. The kind of answer that sounds very reasonable when you need it to be reasonable.
He hopped on her tail. She slipped into the water.
The water rose. "You're getting wet down there," said the fox. "Better climb up to my back."
He climbed up to her back.
The water rose higher. "Better climb up to my head."
He climbed up to her head.
The water rose higher still. "Better climb up to my nose. Wouldn't want you to get soggy."
He climbed up to her nose. He was standing on the very tip, the far bank almost in reach, and for one moment he was balanced there above the water with the whole world behind him — the cow, the horse, the farmer, the old woman and old man, all of them standing on the other bank, watching.
The fox flipped her head up.
Snap.
That was it. Quick and gone.
He'd been alive for maybe half an hour. He spent the whole time running. He yelled his name at everyone he passed. He outran every single one of them. He had an absolute blast.
The little old woman went home. She made another batch the following week. Six of them this time. Kept the oven shut tight.
None of them ran. They were perfectly good gingerbread men. But they weren't him.
Goodnight to the Gingerbread Man and his glorious thirty minutes.
Goodnight to the little old woman and the little old man.
Goodnight to the cow, the horse, and the farmer, who never did catch him.
Goodnight to the fox, who was always going to eat him, and who was very patient about it.
Goodnight.