Far, far away in the north, there was a vast world of white snow and ice. There lived a polar bear named Oliver.
Oliver had a thick white coat, big black paws, and a round, chubby belly. His favorite thing to do was to go “pitter-patter” for a walk on the ice, then jump into the icy sea and catch a big, fat fish for dinner.
But one day, Oliver ran into a bit of trouble.
He had caught three fish. One for breakfast, one for lunch, and one left over that he simply couldn’t finish.
“It would be a shame to throw it away,” Oliver said, patting his round belly. “I’ll freeze it and save it for tomorrow.”
So Oliver dug a little hole in the snow, put the fish inside, covered it with snow, and gave it two good pats with his big paws.
“Perfect!” he said with a satisfied nod. “This is the safest refrigerator in the world.”
Then he went home and fell asleep.
The next morning, Oliver stretched himself a great big stretch and walked over to where he had hidden the fish. He dug through the snow with his big paws—
Huh? The fish was gone.
“That’s impossible,” Oliver said, tilting his head. “Did the fish grow legs and run away?”
He looked down and studied the snow carefully. He saw a trail of tiny footprints, like little plum blossoms.
“Oh,” said Oliver. “Someone has been here.”
He followed the footprints—walking and walking and walking—until he came to a small snowdrift.
Behind the snowdrift was a little Arctic fox named Fiona. She was hugging the fish, but she was so sleepy that she had fallen asleep right there, holding it. A tiny fish scale stuck to the corner of her mouth, sparkling like a little star.
Oliver was a little upset at first. But when he saw Fiona curled up into a tiny ball, his anger melted away.
“She must have been so hungry,” Oliver whispered.
He didn’t wake Fiona. Instead, he quietly walked back to the sea and caught another fish. This time, he divided it into two halves—one half he placed beside Fiona’s snowdrift, and the other half he took home.
The next day, Oliver went to check on the little snowdrift again. Fiona was still there, but this time she wasn’t asleep. She sat on the snow, with half a fish in front of her and a little snowball beside her. A small twig was stuck into the snowball, like a tiny flag.
“This is for you,” Fiona said softly. “Thank you for not being angry with me.”
Oliver smiled. He sat down and shared that half fish with Fiona.
From that day on, Oliver never hid his fish in a snow pit again. Every day, he caught two fish—one for himself and one to place beside Fiona’s snowdrift.
Sometimes, Fiona would draw a smiley face in the snow. Sometimes, Oliver would place a tiny frozen flower on top of the snowdrift.
They never said the words “we are friends.” But every time Oliver saw those little footprints in the snow, his heart felt warm.
The Arctic nights are very, very long, and the stars twinkle overhead.
Oliver lay in his snow den, covered by his thick white coat, listening to the whoosh of the wind outside. He thought of Fiona hugging the fish as she slept, and he couldn’t help but smile.
“Tomorrow,” he said softly, closing his eyes, “I’m going to catch the biggest fish of all.”
And then he fell asleep.
In his dream, a fish came running across the snow, with a little Arctic fox chasing after it, laughing like a little star.
Goodnight, Oliver.
Goodnight, Fiona.
Goodnight, little one.
