The subsequent withdrawal of the Wonderbit forces from Candledrops was far from immediate, and it was mostly Spitfire’s fault.

After some convincing, she made a call to scratch the Firefly Gate off their schedule and spend a few more minutes at the museum. Now that she had the orphans banded up together again, she’d take the shortest route to the café rather than gallop all the way to the Promenade where more dangers certainly lurked. She didn’t want to pose as overprotective, but her squad—her cheerful, huggable, and all in all mostly innocent squad—was an asset worth securing. Like a good team, the children regained a lot of their concord once they reunited. Chestnut offered to carry Glavia, so Wind Whisper elected for her to choose which of the many remaining displays they would go and see. In return, Chestnut chose the Power Ponies room despite having visited it on her own earlier, so that her friend could see it too.

“Wait, so let me get this straight,” Spitfire said as they left the urban scenery of Maretropolis. “Radiance is the one with the glowing rope?”

The foals rolled their eyes in unison—because how dare Spitfire not know every bit of lore about the Power Ponies.

“It’s not a rope. It’s a lasso,” Wind Whisper replied. “And no, Radiance has the power bracelets she got from a superhero from another planet who crashed his spaceship in Maretropolis.”

Spitfire shook her head. “No, you’ve just said it was the zeppelin pilot who got the bracelets. Green Gardener or something like that?”

“Green Gardener is Radiance’s real name, duh!” Chestnut cut in. “And the one with the lasso is called Mistress Mare-velous. She’s super strong because she comes from a super old city of Alfalfis that’s also an island, but she had to leave her home to help others. She’s my favorite Power Pony and I know everything about her!” she threatened. “For example, did you know she had four costumes but only three red ones? That’s because after she got her powers back from Shadowmane who stole them, she started wearing more black and also a hood like the one Shadowmane is wearing. Some say it’s because the Mane-iac’s power stealing machine turned her evil, but I don’t think that’s true.”

“She threw her hoofarangs at Masked Matter-Horn though,” Wind Whisper pointed out. “And in the last issue she ran away. She’s hiding something.”

“Sometimes hiding stuff is the only way to keep others from a bigger danger. I’m sure she has her reasons!”

However civil, the chitchat on the difficult matters of trust and allegiances was getting increasingly confusing with every new character introduced. At first, Spitfire was impressed by how many bizarre names could be crammed into a young pony’s head, and she had to admit there was at least some well-thought backstory behind them, but she soon gave up on figuring the phenomenon of superheroes. Nerd fiction just wasn’t for her.

On their way out, they passed by a room where two actual heroines resided.

Instead of drawing a strong line between their figures and separating the display into two parts, one representing the day, and one mirroring the night, the room was kept in a state of perpetual twilight. The cunning use of lamps illuminating the horizon entwined with the darkening shades of blue going up to the ceiling adorned with shining sequins, creating the ultimate union between the two extremes. Similarly, the two sisters weren’t looking the opposite ways, but were turned towards each other. Their eyes aligned to the inch, suggesting that the visionary behind the scene wanted them to be parts of the same display from the very start.

A single peek inside was enough for Chestnut to quickly turn to the oh-so-interesting fire safety regulations in the corridor.

“Look, Miss Spitfire!” Wind Whisper called, getting to the tips of his hooves and shooting his chin up. “I can almost reach Princess Luna’s wing!”

“You sure can, kid, but we need to be going now. Come on, wave the Princesses goodbye!”

Unbeknown to her, Chestnut sighed with relief.

The museum’s other exit cast them out on Ivory Street. As they strolled southboundish, Spitfire scanned the area for pointers as to where exactly they ended up, but the ground level in no way matched the city plan she had in her head. She was used to finding her way in Canterlot through differing heights and more distinctive rooftops, and she only had to hoof it during official parades with predefined routes. She felt bad for not knowing the capital better—then again, she doubted anypony from around here knew Baltimare like she did.

She got the general idea of her whereabouts once she spotted a big-boned griffon sweeping the pavement before his store. She had visited the place a few times, most recently during a sudden shortage of color highlighters everywhere at the Hurricane Academy where she was supposed to hold a seminar on the tactical advantages of slipstreaming. If Gabriel’s Emporium was here, then their ETA was just a few minutes. Even though she didn’t dread the time with the orphans like she thought she would, she was looking forward to completing this assignment. She had enough adventures for one day.

Those, however, did not share her sentiment—and neither did a femme fatale unicorn sporting a classy fedora standing on the corner of Ivory and Ruby.

“What bounty! It seems our paths cross once again!” the mare said, her voice oozing with theatrical mockery. “Raisin Rose, Voice of the Promenade. May I ask you a few questions?”

Spitfire gritted her teeth. “I know who you are, Resin. What do you want? Haven’t you had enough fun at my expense?”

The reporter put a hoof to her chest. “Ah! I’m insulted, truly I am. You know that I’m here merely to build bridges between my readers and what’s worth knowing.” Her horn gleamed with jonquil light and immediately a small notepad and a pencil appeared out of nowhere. “So, I see you are in the company of children.” She glanced at them from over her glasses, the frame of which was fashioned after a twisted stalk. “Quite a… diverse bunch. Rescued them from a tree, have you? Would that be a recruiting attempt, or something to fix the public image of the Wonderbolts which, according to a recent poll, isn’t flawless, though still a bit better than back in the day? Oh, and do be a good pony and try to spit out something printable rather than telling me to stick my you-know-what you-know-where like you so cordially did the last time.”

“What the what now?” Wind Whisper turned to Chestnut, but the filly shrugged, blissfully clueless.

“Grown-ups,” she replied, rolling her eyes.

Spitfire recalled the nightmare that arose after a Wonderbolt veteran Wind Rider—now dishonorably discharged—tried to play dirty to preserve his long-distance speed record. In her commentary on the matter, Raisin Rose made it look like the whole team was morally corrupt and stopped at nothing when it came to winning. Spitfire had to go through an awful lot of inspections, present proper documentation, show that she knows the procedures, pass a herb test and so on. At some party later on, she firmly told the nosy reporter what she was thinking about her so-called journalism. The drama may or may not have ended with a bowl of cream on someone’s head. Since then, Spitfire had been in the state of war with Raisin Rose, Voice of the Promenade.

Though the memories got her hot under the collar, Spitfire decided to be a better pony this time.

“Oh, I’ll give you your material,” she chuckled. “The whole, unbiased truth.”

“Well, you do look like a walking fashion disaster, so I’m all ears.”

“Today I’m participating in the joint maneuvers between the Wonderbolts and the Canterlot Orphanarium,” Spitfire began. “We have been invited by Doctor Sunlit Hugs who runs the facility to drop by and spend the afternoon with his pupils.” She showed the mare to the foals who grinned and waved at the reporter. Raisin Rose gestured back slightly, though her expression remained impassive. “We’ve been visiting important landmarks in the vicinity, talking about the history of the Wonderbolts, and sharing in the virtues of discipline, responsibility, and fraternity which we are proud to adhere. Oh, and before you ask, we’re not getting a single bit out of it. Five of my teammates volunteered to spend their spare time with the kids, and they did it out of their good nature. Not that you have any idea what that is.”

“A pony is a timberwolf to pony, but we can skip the philosophers for your sake. But what I’m seeing here bears marks of an elaborate PR stunt. How do you plead?”

“Well, you’re seeing it wrong,” Spitfire retorted. “Your buddies at the Voice would’ve gotten a press release if we wanted publicity. Today’s not about us, however. It’s about these little guys.”

The pencil stopped its furious dance. The mare’s horn gleamed once again, causing the tools of her trade to vanish. At the same time, her headwear bulged a little.

“Careful, captain. You’re getting borderline sentimental. Or is that your new training regimen? Do you Wonderbolts actually drill those mawkish monologues?”

Spitfire groaned. “Are you for real? I’m giving you a chance to write something serious, to raise awareness, so that the poor kids could maybe get back a little something from life that’s been doing nothing but taking its toll, and you’re still in it just to make a mock of us?”

“And why would I do that? You and your flyponies are putting enough effort on your own.”

“Why, you—”

Raisin Rose intercepted Spitfire’s hoof and captured it in her own, taking a step forth. “Oh, I love when you’re getting all feisty because of me, truly I do.” She loosened her grip. “Alas, I see that you haven’t landed in the middle of a controversy for once, which means you are of no interest to me. Today. Thank you ever so kindly for your time, though,” she said with a generous smile.

Spitfire felt an urge to give someone a hoof bump. With a rusty, type-sixty pipe from a nearby dig site. Straight to the face. And multiple times.

Unshaken by Spitfire’s flustered figure, Raisin Rose stepped between the foals with a practiced sigh.

“I’ll probably pass my notes to some young idealist who thinks he can make a difference by reporting about what’s warm and fuzzy,” she said, cupping Chestnut’s chin. “About the world’s ‘good nature’, as you put it. Or perhaps I’ll write it myself!” She reached out to pat Glavia’s little head. “The day’s been awfully boring anyway, and I have to make a living somehow. Besides—ouch!” she exclaimed as the griffon playfully clenched onto her. She shook her off with ease. “Not bad! I tell you, Spitfire, if you’re planning on enlisting griffons then you may one day turn your little weather patrol into an actual defense force.”

“And if you’re planning on trying yourself at serious journalism… no, you’d be still far from being an actual reporter.” She put on her sunglasses. “Good day.”

“I’m not your enemy, captain!” the mare yelled on parting. “I’m just good at giving my readers what they want. It’s not my fault you’re such an interesting character!”

With that, Raisin Rose, Voice of the Promenade trotted down the city’s veins in hope of gripping another controversy right at its beating heart.

“That lady was mean,” Wind Whisper said. “Does she have a problem with the Wonderbolts?”

“A little, yeah. She thinks that we’re not very good at protecting Equestria.”

“How can she say that? The Wonderbolts are the best helping flying ponies there are, well, maybe next to the Princesses, but they also have magic so it doesn’t count. You’re great at protecting Equestria, I know it! She can ask me and I’ll tell her!”

Spitfire smiled, ruffled his mane, but succumbed to a sigh. “I’m afraid it would take more than one interview to convince her and her readers that we’re actually doing our job well. She’d need something more dramatic, like a catastrophe to write about, because these days we really are just a glorified weather patrol. Either nothing happens, or it’s a thing that’s so out of our league it’s better left to the Princesses. There haven’t been any threats lately the ponies of Equestria would need us at.”

“Well, I don’t know about the rest of Equestria, but Canterlot is big and a bit scary. But I’m not scared when you’re around. I feel protected!”

“Yeah, me too!” Chestnut added. “And remember that without you, we’d never-ever go on a trip like this, especially not with Glavia.” She glanced over her shoulder. “She isn’t even allowed to climb trees, let alone visit museums, am I right?”

“Wo!”

Spitfire chuckled. “Say again, ball?”

“Weird,” Wind Whisper said. “I’ve never heard this one before.” He gasped and grabbed the griffon. “She’s trying to say her first word! What is it, what are you going to say?”

“Wo!”

“Wo? Wo-what?” Chestnut asked.

“Wo-bolt!” Glavia replied, pointing at Spitfire.

“Wobolt? Oh, Wonderbolt! Yes, Miss Spitfire is a Wonderbolt. Very good! Say it with me: Won-der-bolt.”

“Wo-bolt!”

“That’s close enough,” Wind Whisper said, trying to get a hold of Glavia as she frantically flapped her wings and reached out towards Spitfire. “Hey, easy there! You sound sweet when you speak, but you’re still full of pointy endings! Help!”

“I think it’s time for my five minutes again,” Spitfire said and crouched by the colt so he could unload the griffon onto her back. Glavia, however, forced her way up Spitfire’s neck. The mare winced, but helped her get to the top. “On my head, then. Sure. I look like a thousand disasters anyway,” she said, glancing at her reflection in the nearby window. Her de-buttoned jacket, rumpled shirt, and tie with its pathetic excuse for a knot were as representative as her coat marked with whatever substances once flowed through the pipe she had crawled through.

She felt a set of talons reaching to her ear.

“Under one condition,” she said upwards. “You stay away from my glasses. Deal?”

Glavia burrowed herself in Spitfire’s mane.

“Good. You’d still look ridiculous.”

With her spirits lifted by the kids willing to support her, and her neck willing to support the kid she had lifted onto her head, Spitfire and her team of valiant Wonderbits mustered their strength, endurance and willpower one last time to reach their destination.

Soon they stopped at a welcoming passage that lead through the ground floor of a three-storey building. The archway framing the entrance was made of red bricks similar to those forming the museum’s facade, though possessing a charming flair of unevenly burnt clay to it. The windows on the right from the passage and along its right wall had reddish bird silhouettes painted all over. Blurred by design, those unruly cuckoos were the establishment’s trademark which attracted many artistic souls seeking inspiration in their two-dimensional flight of fancy. Of course the Red Cuckoo Café also offered regular nourishment for those unwilling to sustain themselves on their much moving art.

Spitfire heard Soarin’s laughter coming somewhere from the other end of the passage.

“Well, that’s it,” she said, landing Glavia on Wind Whisper’s back. “I know we didn’t take the planned route, but thanks to the little shortcut through the museum we’re like… six minutes ahead of schedule. Do you think your Doctor Hugs will mind?”

“Nah,” Wind Whisper said with a shrug. “He likes you way too much.”

“E-excuse me?”

“Totally! He was talking about your visit all week, you know. I think he was even more excited than we were. He told us you’re the most—”

Chestnut stuck her hoof in his mouth. “Shh! Wind! That’s a secret!”

“Oops! My bad!” He leaned to Chestnut’s ear and covered his muzzle, but his whisper was still perfectly audible. “What about that time when he asked Soft Spot which of his new ties she thinks will be more up to Miss Spitfire’s liking? Is this something we’re not telling too?”

Chestnut landed a hoof on her forehead. “You are a terrible keeper, you know that?” She then turned to the still dumbfounded mare. “Hey, did you know you’re red on your face? Right here.” She bopped Spitfire’s cheeks which blazed like wildfire. “Let’s go find the others!”

“The last at Doctor Hugs is a Hum Drum!”

They galloped forth, leaving the mare amid her thoughts.

She felt like a high schooler again, a naive, growing-up filly prone to silly crushes she’d later claim as great romances. She, the strict, task-oriented pony with a strong military mindset, caught herself wondering if there was a grain of truth to what the orphans spilled out. The perspective was intriguing, but for some reason made her continue down the passage rather reluctantly, perhaps even with a dose of anxiety. She actually considered turning her tail and fleeing right this instant, but that would be most un-Wonderbolty of her.

Should she stay out, or should she go for it? At least Soarin would cut his nagging if she tried, but she wouldn’t consider him her life coach. Still, it wasn’t like she had anything to lose, and if something went wrong she could always blame the kids for suggesting the idea to her. Yes! That was a flawless tactic. Yet it was also pure nonsense, because no pony in right mind would want to hang out with someone as cynical as her. Unless they were getting an autograph later on, but that wasn’t the case here. Hopefully. Wishfully?

Her ears perked up at the familiar sounds. In her thoughts she thanked to whoever picked the ambience of the café’s roofless patio, because if there was one thing she’d take as a promise of a good time, it was the music of the eighties—that, and seeing her Wonderbolts laughing and fooling around with the children. Seated at the low tables on red and black cushions, they were all present and accounted for, from Cloudchaser hoof-wrestling against the crystal pony twins, to Fleetfoot, swarmed by her recruits, posing for photographs. Soarin was the only one who spotted Spitfire right away. He straightened up in a reflex salute, and the Wonderbits gathered before him turned around and repeated the gesture.

Not bad. Not bad at all.

Doctor Hugs beckoned to Spitfire. “Ah, captain! Please, join us! Hey, Vicky! Can we please get another seat to our table?”

The pony in question, Victory Sash, was an amber mare wearing the colors of the café and a small, silvered cuckoo token pinned on her chest.

“Sorry, Mr. Hugs, but we seem to be short on stock with that. We don’t usually serve such large, if small clientele. Tell you what, though”—she reached to the pillow underneath the stallion—“we have a few of these. Do get up, please. Here you are! We have a few expandable ones, they’re like flat sofas, I guess.” She turned to Spitfire with an apologetic smile. “I’m terribly sorry, captain, but as you can see we have a rush today!”

“Oh, I can stand. I-I can’t stay, actually,” Spitfire replied, but was quickly flanked by Chestnut and Wind Whisper who led her towards the table.

“Nonsense!” Victory Sash remarked. “I heard you’re on your way to the Academy, isn’t that right? It’s not too far from here, you know, even by hoof. Mr. Hugs, do move a bit!” she ordered and together with the foals seated Spitfire in the stallion’s personal space. “There! Not too tight for you two, I hope?”

“It’s actually quite, uhm, quite cozy,” Spitfire admitted, trying to fight the awkwardness with little to no success. “I-I guess I can stay a minute?”

“Don’t worry, captain,” Doctor Hugs said, leaning in, “I haven’t forgotten about our agreement. We’ll get the official part under way and you’ll be free to go.” He eyed the snickering orphans at the other side of the table. “So, from what I heard you didn’t get to the Firefly Gate, but instead went through… I’m not exactly sure how to put it. What did you say it was, you were saying?”

“Fountains!” Chestnut exclaimed. “Big holes in the ground! Pipes falling from the sky!”

“Missing Miss Spitfire! Missing Chestnut! Missing me!”

“Awesome museum shortcuts! Power Ponies!”

“A mean reporter lady! Glavia talking!”

“Wo-bolt!”

“Coming to the café! Finding you! Eating ice cream—wait, we’re still before that.”

“Ha-ha, I hear you,” Victory Sash deadpanned. “You want your ice cream, you’re going to help me first. I’ve got some bags in the back I need moved and I think it’ll take all three of you to make it happen, okay?” she said and gave them an intense stare.

Chestnut slowly backed away from the table, dragging Wind Whisper along. “Oh. Yeah. We’re gonna help with some bags, Doc. You know.”

“By all means, please do,” the stallion replied. “Excuse me, captain. You seem to have something stuck in your mane. About”—he pointed a little over his temple—“here?”

Her mane was a mess anyway, so she shook it forcefully. “Did I get it?”

“Not… exactly. May I?” he asked, and upon receiving one timid nod he gently stroked her hairline. “There, some white flakes. And there. I wonder, do clouds have that much lime in them, or were you just scratching scale off your kettle?” He nudged her, eliciting a muffled squeak, and whispered, “Shh, here they come! Try to act surprised, if you please.”

The orphans approached amid a conundrum of sorts.

“You talk,” Chestnut whispered.

“No, you talk. I give.”

“Okay. I talk. Glavia holds. You give.”

“Okay.”

Chestnut took a sharp breath and spouted, “Miss Captain Spitfire, we’d like to thank you for coming with us today and showing us the fountain and the museum and the stuff and teaching us a lot about the Wonderbolts. You are super great, which is like normal great but also more, and we like you very much and because of that we want you to have this.”

Wind Whisper raised Glavia to the mare’s eye level to deliver a colorful card the griffon was holding. Inside, there was an arty collage made of wool, pieces of fabric, beads, confetti, and whatever that smooth ribbon was.

Spitfire cracked a smile and coughed to not burst out laughing.

“So, whose idea it was to make my wings so big, hmm?”

“At first we thought that since you’re the captain you’ll have the biggest wings,” Chestnut said. “It made sense at the time, but then Doc Hugs told us that’s not how it works. Then we did it anyway because we had a lot of yellow wool to spare. Do you like it?”

“It’s wonderful. I love the little beads for eyes, too. But I never imagined myself as a half-dragon.”

“You’re not a half-dragon here! A half-dragon would have half-scales and half-talons!”

“Well then, why I am breathing half-flames here? The Wonderbolts don’t do that, you know.”

Wind Whisper pumped up with a I-was-right-you-were-wrong gloat.

“See? I told you she doesn’t really spit fire.”

“How could I know? My name tells me what I’m good at. I thought hers would too.”

Spitfire crouched by the orphans and gave each a heartfelt hug. “You guys are the best. The best Wonderbits I could have ever asked for.” She cradled Glavia in her foreleg with gentleness she didn’t know she had in her. “That means you too, ball. But next time you want to go under the streets of Canterlot, make sure you have your friends watching your back, okay? They’ll take care of you when I’m gone. As for you two, no fighting over nothing, okay?”

The foals nodded, and Glavia cooed in understanding and nuzzled up against Spitfire’s chest. A sensation of peace filled the mare now that she realized she had delivered the kids and thus accomplished her mission. She was free to go at last.

But then a thorn of grief stung her.

She dried her eyes and straightened up. “Listen up, recruits,” she said, bringing up her military swagger again. “I had a great time working with you on this assignment. I hope that we’ll be able to repeat it in the near, however undisclosed future. Unfortunately, as the captain of the Wonderbolts I have many other responsibilities, and one of them demands I leave you now. I… I can’t stay with you for the rest of the afternoon, even though I’d love to participate in other activities you have planned for today.”

Instead of getting droopy, Wind Whisper turned excited. “Oh, when there’s no lead pony, the squad breaks up and the pegasi are put into other squads. It’s called reassigning, right? Can we get reassigned to Miss Cloudchaser?”

Chestnut snickered and leaned with a whisper, “Don’t tell anyone, but Wind thinks she’s pretty.”

“Huh? What are you saying there, Nutsie?”

“Uhm, nothing, just asking if Miss Captain Spitfire will take a picture with us.”

“Oh! Good idea!” the oblivious colt replied and trotted back to the edge of the passage. “Maybe here? With the cuckoos in the background?”

Chestnut eagerly joined in. “Can we do the big wings thing? You know, we spread our wings to the sides to look cool and also because we’ll be really responsible from now on, like it said in the museum. Wind, you stand here.” She spotted the colt’s bandages and his disheartened muzzle. “Or, you know what’s even better? We’ll do one wing each. You spread one, I do the other, and Miss Captain does both and we stay underneath.”

“Like that?” Spitfire asked, taking her place between the children.

“Yeah! And Glavia… do whatever you like, I guess,” she said and proudly protruded her right wing to the side. “Because, you know, big wings mean big responsibility.”

“Or a big ball of wool,” Spitfire chuckled and waved to a mare holding a camera. “Hey, excuse me, could we get—yeah, thanks. Alright, Wonderbits! Take positions!”

Back at the tables, Doctor Hugs smiled at the scene. The faith he had put in a pony’s good nature once again turned out well-placed, and rewarded him with uplifting feelings exchanged all around. That was his job—making the world a better place by showing others they could be so much more.

If his hunch was right, then both Chestnut and Wind Whisper learned a valuable lesson from Spitfire. The captain herself seemed more cheerful as well, without a doubt the result of having her drawn out from her regular social role and making her a caretaker for the little ones. It may have helped that they were her fans. The Red Cuckoo only contributed further to this welcoming feel. There was the captain’s favorite music playing in the background, she was found a place at the tables despite the crowded conditions, and she was given a complimentary treat.

He looked at the two cupcakes Victory Sash put before him. Be that by bad luck or cunning design, they were conjoined on the edges and would have to be pulled apart to be shared.

In an epiphanic moment he realized it was all coming along too easily.

“Here you are, Mr. Hugs,” the waitress said. “I’ll bring the ice cream in a minute. Oh, and sorry about the cupcakes. In this last batch we had them too close and that happened. I would normally prepare another, but since Miss Spitfire is in a hurry…”

“Yes, I understand now,” he replied under his breath. “A minute of your time, Vicky! I’ve been thinking about your excellent choice of music for today. I understand the eighties aren’t in your usual repertoire? I remember you told me once me that since your target customer base are young ponies, you strive to keep up with the modern music,” he said, to which the mare didn’t reply, but gave him a perplexed stare. “Of course I am a big fan of those tunes myself, and I believe our Wonderbolt in charge is also content with the choice. Look at her hoof. She’s been tapping the rhythm since she came in.”

“We were, uhm, we were just experimenting with the wider choice of café ambiance music, that’s all. I-I’m glad it is up to your liking. We want our guests to feel taken care for.”

“Quite so indeed, yes. I salute your quick-thinking one the matter of the seating in particular. You obviously didn’t want to have one of your guest sit on the ground… or use one of a dozen pillows you’ve got stashed under the counter for emergencies like that?”

“I-I’m afraid I don’t know what do you mean by that, Mr. Hugs.”

“Nothing, nothing,” he assured. “It just shows your care for your customers. Still, this cupcake-for-two I’m seeing here, however a good deal, made me wondering. Was Fizzy around here today, by any chance?”

“No,” the mare quickly replied. “She wasn’t around here today, why?”

Doctor Hugs leveled her with a knowing stare.

“Darn it,” she murmured and held her silver plate high to hide a blooming blush which made her cheeks go through a sunset. “Uhm, excuse me. There are other guests waiting for their orders. Excuse me.”

“Of course. Thank you.”

Doctor Hugs tried to catch Spitfire’s eye. With a big grin on her face, she allowed the children to arrange her wings into a properly photogenic spread. When she spotted that the stallion was watching her, she gave him a nod, and he replied in kind.

The mare with the camera held it high. “Say: Wonderbit!”

“Wonder-beeeet!”

“Wo-bolt!”