A silver Civic whirrs past the sign at the front of the road which reads, "Rocky Hill Farm."

"You'll love it, Mary," Abe says stopping and turning at the first street. "It's a positively charming little farmhouse. In fact, it's the original farmhouse. They left it standing back when they developed the place. Dead end street. The yard's enormous. Great price; I don't know what the last owners were thinking. Maybe they got into money trouble. Two storeys, three bedrooms, lovely parlor—"

"Running water?" Mary teases.

"Hot water, if you can believe it. The last owners put in electric for the car, but I think they should have left the gas lights as they were."

"You're joking."

Abe turns into a driveway, past a pair of huge maple trees, and lets the house speak for itself. It sits at the top of a hill, crowned with a gray slate roof. The siding is baby blue and the shutters are white, both freshly painted. Second-storey dormers look out over the front yard.

"Oh," Mary says. "Well that's quite nice."



"Hey, Pound. What are you up to today?" Pinkie Pie asks. It's a Saturday and everypony seems to love Saturdays in Ponyville. They bustle about downtown like a swarm of mulitcolored ants, talking, laughing, buying, and selling. Little tents line the street, a striped blue-and-yellow awning over a lemonade stand next to a cart where two rough-cut stallions from out of town are selling rare gems.

Pound Cake, a tan pegasus colt, is sitting just across the street from his parents' bakery-and-cafe, staring up at a tree with a scowl on his face. "It's my kite. Look."

He points a forehoof and Pinkie raises her blue eyes to the top of the tree. Sure enough, a yellow tail flutters in the wind from the top branches.

Pinkie sits down next to him, a thoughtful frown pulling at her pink face. "Well, why don't we fly up and get it?"

"Pinkie, you know I can't fly." Pound buzzes his tiny wings, blowing up two little clouds of dust, but he doesn't even begin to lift himself from the ground. "And you don't even have wings."

"I wouldn't be so sure there, mister," Pinkie says. "I'm pretty sure I left them in the garage."

"What? Really?" Pound suddenly looks over at Pinkie, eyes wide.

Pinkie gets up and trots across the street, around into the shade behind the bakery. Pound follows. Technically, Pinkie is his family's apprentice, but in his world she occupies a position somewhere between "older sister" and "crazy but cool aunt," and for a moment he can almost belive that she somehow does have a pair of bright pink wings neatly folded up and hanging on the wall. He tries to imagine how that would work.

Pinkie hauls on a pull ring, sliding the door of the garage open. The rough green-painted wood slips through the little spots of sunlight that pass between the leaves of the tree.

A cart sits in the garage, ready to go. Next to it, a compact clutter of wooden crates are stacked from floor to ceiling, labeled in Pinkie's energetic mouth-writing: "Streamers," "Poof-Going Things," "Instant Tea Party Kit Mk. 4," "Old-Fashioned Novelties," and many, many more.

"Oh no," she says. "I left my wings behind the balloon."



This is a security announcement. Only ticketed passengers and authorized personel are allowed beyond the security checkpoint. Keep control of your baggage and belongings at all time. Do not accept bags from anyone you do not know. Report unattended baggage or suspicious behavior to uniformed employees or security personel. If you see something, say something.

The voice reverberates off the waxed faux-marble floor, the polished counters, the glass, and steel of the terminal. A farmer and his grown daughter walk away from the check-in desk slowly, as if spellbound at the size.

It looks big enough to hold an entire county fair inside. Here and there people skitter about, little dark spots each no more significant on the sea of beige stone than waterskaters on the surface of a pond. Wheeled suitcases whir and clack behind the travellers.

The farmer comes to stop at what he judges to be a respectful distance from the security folk with their starched white shirts, shiny badges, and machines encased in clinical off-white plastic.

"Well, I guess this is it, sweetie pie." He's dressed in his best gray suit and he carves what he hopes is an encouraging smile into his sun-lined face.

The daughter, perhaps in her late teens, isn't dressed as out of place. Her work boots and jeans are worn-in, but the light-gray UST sweatshirt she wears could be new. Springy blond hair cascades over her shoulders and a bubblegum pink messenger bag hangs at her side. "Well gosh, Papa, it's just school. You make it sound like I'm going away forever."

The farmer's smile falls just a bit. "I'm going to miss you."

His daughter throws herself on his shoulders, half hug, half wrestling move. The farmer takes half a step back, but she squeezes his chest tight and holds him up. "I'll miss you too, but I promise I'll call every week and send postcards and cookies and things, and you'll see, it'll be like I never left."

The farmer pats her back and doesn't say anything for a long moment. Then he coughs. "You'd best not miss your flight, then. Make sure you have your ticket and your license..."

"Uh-huh. I love you, Papa." She lets him go, sets him balanced upright. "And I'll see you in a few short, short months."

Like that, she's gone, skipping towards the security officers. She looks back once, smiles and waves. The farmer turns, a little unsteady, towards the long, lonely ride home.

But he's so very, very proud.



Pinkie Pie takes a look at the stack of party miscelanea now piled outside the garage, and realises she'll have a lot of organizing to do later, hopefully before Mr. Cake notices, because he'll probably complain and she'll have to pick everything up and he'll be in a bad mood until she does—which won't be a very nice thing to do to him.

On the other hoof, she and Pound Cake have found her wings.

Pound's imagination was completely wrong. Pinkie's "wings" have a candy-cane frame, four pedals, a couple of spinny-things on top, and for some reason a giant daisy on the front. It doesn't make a whole lot of sense to him, but to be fair it wouldn't make a whole lot of sense to most ponies.

"Help me pull it out front," Pinkie says. "I need open air and maybe a little headwind. It's been a while, but I think I remember how to fly this bad boy."

Pound takes a spot behind the flying machine, sets his shoulder against the frame, and pushes as hard as he can. It doesn't move of course, not until Pinkie stands next to the seat and wrangles it out of the garage. The runner along the bottom scrapes against the ground. They have to take several breaks but they finally get it in front of the bakery.

Pinkie wipes the sweat off her brow with a knee and looks across the street. "Um, Pound, wasn't your kite in that tree?"

Pound looks, then runs across the street. Pinkie takes a moment to fold out the kickstand of her flying machine, and by the time she catches up with him, he's almost made himself cry. "It's gone. Pinkie, it's g—gone..."

Pinkie lies down on her belly, brings her nose level with him. "Hey. The wind probably just blew it out of the tree. I'll search from the air and you search from the ground and there's no way we can possibly miss it."

Pound sniffs and tries to smile. "Okay. L—let's try."

He climbs to his feet, but at that very moment, another colt's voice interrupts. "Excuse me, Miss Pie?" He's a skinny pegasus with a white coat and brown mane, standing in the middle of the street. "Can I ask you a question or two?"

Pinkie looks at him and shakes her head, but walks over to him anyway. "You already asked me a question, and you didn't even ask first. You should know better, Featherweight."

"Sorry," Featherweight says, and then realization crosses his face. "But if I have to ask before I can ask then how am I supposed to—"

Pinkie flashes him a smile. "It's okay, kiddo. What's your question?"

"What is the most important thing to you?" He looks down at the ground and adds, "Miss Cheerilee told us to. I'm supposed to interview some pony and write about what we talked about. If you don't mind."

"Oh," Pinkie says. "How about I show you what's important to me? C'mon, Pound. We have a kite to find."



Abe stops the car at the top of the driveway, gets out and opens Mary's door for her. "Isn't this charming?" she says. Abe nodds once in agreement.

"I'll just take a little walk around."

"Please do," Abe says. "After all, we bought the place. Take all the time you want. I'll start unloading."

Mary wanders around to the back yard, staring up at the house and out over the property. There's a park in the middle of the development not too far away. It has a tennis court and a basketball court with some kind of red paved surface, and a small playground too. The rest of the ground is green as far as she can see: grass, trees in full leaf, a small vegetable garden.

As far as she can tell, it's a nice neighborhood.

Abe is carrying the last box in from the car when Mary steps inside to show herself around the house. He sits down with a bottle of water. The moving company will come tomorrow, and there'll be plenty of work then, but he'll savor the moment he has now. The empty rooms echo strangely as Mary creaks around upstairs and finally comes back down.

"Abe," she says. "Can you look at this?"

Abe hoists himself back to his feet, follows his wife up the stairs. She leads him into the master bedroom, and puts her hands on her hips. "How many windows are there that face the back?"

"Hey, don't ask me. I haven't exactly counted them."

Mary drops her arms and looks out into the yard. "I think we're missing one."

"Missing?" Abe steps close and hugs her waist gently. "What do you mean, 'missing?' "

"There's one on the outside that we don't have in here."

Abe considers this, looking around the empty room. The ugly wallpaper will have to go, he decides. He points to the windows one by one. "Well, let's see then. One. Two."



"Don't take it personally, Miss Pie, but I don't think that looks like a very good idea," Featherweight says.

Pinkie perches atop her flying machine and snaps a pair of flight goggles over her eyes. "Featherweight, how much fun do you think I'd have if I only had good ideas? And 'Miss Pie' is my sister. Could you call me Pinkie?"

Pound Cake stands by a shrub, eyebrows furrowed. "Pinkie, maybe we should listen to the flying pony."

"Nonsense! This thing is perfectly one-hundred-percent Pinkie-approved super safe. Now be a good little colt and take cover. A-one, a-two, a-goin'-through!" Pinkie stands on the pedals and pumps all four. The twin rotors at the top of her craft begin to spin in opposite directions, slowly builing speed.

"You know one of them is a little crooked, right, Miss Pinkie?" Featherweight says. Pound peeks from behind a yew bush.

Pinkie grits her teeth and spins the pedals faster. There's something a little gritty or sticky in the chain and it's not turning as well as she remebers. The faintest touch of frustration creeps into her voice. "Don't get any ideas, Featherweight. Just because you've got wings of your own doesn't mean you know the first thing about building gadgets." The blades whir faster and faster, the flying machine stands up straight, and then ever so softly it leaves the ground.

"Hah!" Pinkie says. She rises half a pony's height off the ground, then a full pony. A little tic begins to twitch, twitch at her tail, but she ignores it. "Now that is how it's—"

Snap!

Something very breakable breaks and flies away from the machine buzzing like a whole nest full of bees. The machine, and Pinkie, drop to the ground as if they'd been held up by a string that somepony came along and cut with an enormous pair of invisible scissors.

Down the street, somepony is screaming.

Featherweight finds his voice but it's all sqeaky and choked. "Pinkie? Are you all right?"

Pound hides his face under his hooves, shaking.

Pinkie untangles herself from the wreck and staggers down the street.



She hasn't called this week. Not yet, and it's late Saturday night. The farmer never got around to making himself dinner; he just sits at the kitchen table under the florescent lights with the box of cookies his daughter sent him. Only a few crumbs are left, even though he barely remembers eating any.

The phone next to him shatters the silence. He picks it up, brings it to his ear, calls his daughter's name.

"No, I'm sorry. I was expecting someone else. Yes, this is him speaking."

The color drains from his face. "I see. No. I'll be there as soon as I can."

He scrambles to his feet, leaves the phone hanging, stumbles to his desk, searching for pen and paper. Jake will be there tomorrow to help with the chores. The farmer scratches him a note, then runs to his bedroom, scrounges some petty cash, and leaves both on the kitchen table. Jake will find it and take care of everything.

Something far, far more important matters to him now. He must move himself or move the earth.

A blade from Pinkie's flying machine is halfway embedded into the second storey of a charming pony house next to a window. The window is open, and the mare glaring through it is anything but charmed. "What were you thinking? Can you imagine what would have happened if that, that thing landed just a little lower?"

Pinkie's ears droop down either side of her face, her mouth twisted into a tiny, horror-struck frown. "I'm so sorry, Lily. I'm just..."

"I sleep in this room. Ponies like you are a menace, do you hear me? A Tartarus-damned menace!" She slams the window shut.

Featherweight and Pound find Pinkie sitting frozen in eactly the same pose. "Miss Pinkie?" Featherweight says, prodding her shoulder lightly. "Are you hurt?"

"No," Pinkie says. "I'm not the one who's hurt." Her voice is very small. "But I almost... not again."

"If we don't find my kite, Pinkie, that's okay," Pound says. "Just please don't cry."

Pinkie climbs to her feet. "We can still look. We're not beaten yet. Featherweight, what did I say was the most important thing right now?"

"Are you serious? Wow, Miss Pinkie, you sure take your kites seriously. Just, leave the flying to me, okay?"

"Sure thing." Pinkie's voice drops to a grim monotone. "And this isn't serious. This is silly. No flying unless we have some safe, gentle, no-fast-spinny-parts way of doing it."

"Actually," Pound says, "what about the balloon?"



Folk music plays from a radio in one corner of the sparsely furnished kitchen and a pot of water boils on the stove. Mary paces around with a notebook and pencil drawing up a shopping list when she's not singing along. Plain pasta and sauce out of a bottle will have to do for tonight, but there's no way she or Abe will put up for it at long.

An awful sound a whirring, groaning, squeaking growl sounds from somewhere upstairs throughout the whole house. Mary sighs. This was supposed to be Abe's night to cook. She turns up the stairs, finding her husband wearing a dust mask and holding a reciprocating saw in his hands.

"Honey, don't you think we should let the ink dry on the mortgage before we start cutting holes in the wall?"

"Hey, sorry." Abe pulls the mask from his face so he can speak clearly. "I'm sure there's an extra room in here. Who knows what it is? Maybe we'll turn it into another bedroom, or you can have the biggest walk-in closet in the neighborhood."

"Maybe it's haunted by ghosts and you'll let them out." Mary shakes her head. "But remember. I'm cooking tonight so that makes it your turn to do the dishes."



Pinkie's hot air baloon rests on its cart outside the bakery. She releases the straps that hold the envelope in a bundle on top, letting purple fabric cascade to the ground. "I can't believe I didn't think of this before, guys. A hot-air balloon is so much safer than wirling blades of death! Now stretch it out neat and flat."

Pinkie, Featherweight, and Pound take three points around the envelope, stretching it into a circle—or at least Pound tries to help. Pinkie finishes her side and helps him with his.

"Yes folks, perfectly safe, and we'll have that kite found in no time." Pinkie trots up to the basket and starts rummaging around inside. She looks up with a sheepish smile. "Well, in no time once we find my gas. Featherweight, do you remember seeing a metal barrel about this big with a big sticker on the side?"

"What kind of sticker?"

"Well, it's red, and there's a drawing of a fire on it, and I think it says 'DANGER: FLAMMABLE' in big block letters. Something like that."

Featherweight looks around the scene his eyes growing wider and wider: the bakery, the trees, the baloon not too far away from the trees, the buildings packed close together here in the center of Ponyville, Pound Cake still pulling the last wrinkles out of the envelope, and Pinkie Pie and her huge smile. He can imagine far, far too many ways for this to go wrong.



Under any other circumstances, the hospital campus would be beautiful. Someone spends a lot of time caring for the beds of flowers, the perfect green lawns, the cherry trees now covered in white blossoms that make them look a little like lollipops made of clouds.

Under any other circumstances, the farmer would take time to admire the landscape, one man who makes things grow admiring the work of another.

He sits in the sterile indoors under florescent lights, over waxed white tile, crushed between walls papered in a soothing shade of cool gray.

He knows it's unfair, but he can't help hating the doctor from the moment he steps into the man's office. Bound dead trees line the walls, dead animals cover the chairs. Desert plants march across the base of the window, thick glass that keeps the birdsong outside and the hum of the air conditioning in. The doctor sits behind his desk, a little bald man with a thick grey moustache wearing the white coat of the grim reaper.

The farmer sinks into a chair. "How is she?"

"Stable," the doctor says. "She's still on a ventilator, but not in any immediate danger. However..." The doctor takes a deep breath and sets his hands on the desk, one on top of the other. "Her prognosis isn't good."

"Not good," the farmer echoes. "But there is still hope, isn't there?"

The doctor smiles thinly. "There is always hope. But in situations like this, I believe it is wisest to hope in proportion to actual probablilities..."



The balloon stands inflated and upright on the ground. Pound and Pinkie stand in the basket, Pound holding himself up with his forehooves hooked over the edge. "This is really going to fly? I'm really going to fly?"

"Yepperooni," Pinkie says. "Just a little more heat and we'll be off the ground." She pulls on the burner's handle and it roars like a dragon, sending a tongue of light and heat into the balloon. "Featherweight, are you coming?"

"Yeah, I guess so..." On one hoof, Featherweight knows he's crazy to board any vehicle with Pinkie, especially after seening the last one self-destruct, but on the other one, he has a very important job to take care of. Grudgingly, he beats his wings and settles into the basket. If the worst happens, he figures he can fly out.

"Now do you know what's the best part about flying in a balloon?" Pinkie's voice squeks with excitement. "You go with the wind. You never know where you'll end up!"

Featherweight glances up, quickly, looking around the curve of the ballon at the highest tree branches, hoping it's blowing anywhere but northwest. No such luck, he finds himself having to think on his hooves. "Pinkie, aren't we looking for Pound's kite?"

"Mmm-hmm," Pinkie says. "And that's why a balloon is so perfect. The wind blew it out of the tree, the baloon follows the wind, everything is hunkey-dorey."

"But the wind shifts," Featherweight says. "When did this happen?"

Pound frowns. "Just before you showed up, Featherweight."

"Oh," Featherweight says. "I remember, the wind was blowing due south then. I guess that just means I'll have to push." He laughs nervously.

Pinkie fires another long burst of flame into the balloon and it slowly begins to rise from the ground.

"Woah," Pound says as the ground and buildings slip down and away.

"Is this your first time flying?" Featherweight asks. "Well, check this out." He hops out of the basket, puts his hooves on the rail and begins to push.



Abe sits in the hallway covered with dust. Really, how long was it supposed to take to cut a hole in a wall? But then he had encountered stud after stud and one day's project became two.

He sets down his hole saw, picks up a flashlight, and angles its beam into the last in a line of holes. He smiles. The mystery room has a door after all; it's covered over by wall board but his sawzall will make short work of that. Half an hour later, he stands in front of a dusty, cobweb-covered door recessed into the wall. Amazingly, it even still has a door handle, an ancient pewter thing that looks like some kind of flower.

He wonders for a moment if he should call his wife, if he and Mary should open this forgotten room together, but then he laughs at himself for being sentimental and superstitious and, with a sudden surge of courage, twists the knob.

He doesn't know why he expected the room to be empty, but nothing could have prepared him for the quantity of pink he encounters behind that door: pink carnations on the wallpaper, pale rose paint on the ceiling, a four-poster bed neatly made decades ago—it's covers are a rich wine red. A dresser sits next to it, a neon shade of bubblegum pink that makes his eyes hurt.

If it weren't for the dust on everything and the wall that had cut the room off from the rest of the house, Abe could imagine the owner of this room had just left for the day and would be back any minute. He doesn't take a single step inside, just stands there frozen for a long moment. Then gently he closes the door, backs into the hallway, sets his back against the far wall, and tries to calm his pounding heart.



"I don't get it," Pinkie says, scanning the ground below through a pair of binoculars. "It was a perfect plan. Why haven't we found that kite yet? Featherweight, push harder."

Featherweight's wings are burning, the tiny white pegasus pushing against the basket of an enormous purple balloon. They've only gone a few blocks to the south, thanks to flying against the wind. He redoubles his efforts; he can't let Pinkie go north, not yet. "I'm trying, Pinkie," he gasps.

Pound Cake peers over the edge. "I don't see anything. Maybe we're not going to find it."

"No!" Pinkie says. "We're not giving up until we find that kite. Oh! Featherweight, I have an idea."

"What, Pinkie?"

"You said the wind shifted. Maybe it shifted and instead of blowing the kite south, it blew it north." Pinkie rushs to the north side of the balloon's basket and tries to scan the city through her binoculars.

Featherweight moves over to block her. Pinkie goes to the opposite side. He reaches out with a wing.

Pinkie sets her binoculars down and sticks her nose in his face. He blinks. Pinkie's voice is low and sweet. "I win the staring contest, Featherweight. You're acting very suspicious. Very suspicious indeed. So how about you tell Auntie Pinkie what's really going on?"



"I just want to make sure I don't misunderstand you," the farmer says, his voice controlled and level. "You're saying I should give up."

"What I am saying is..." The doctor takes a deep breath and chooses his words carefully. "This isn't like a broken arm or laceration or infection. There isn't a normal timeline for healing or a simple series of steps telling us what we should do. All I can say is her chances are less than one percent of ever being able to survive outside of a hospital setting, and those of her living any kind of full life are too small to even estimate.

"You don't know," the farmer says, rising from his chair, pointing a finger at the doctor behind his desk. His voice rises to a scream. "You don't even know! What hope is. Or joy. You don't know my Diane!"

He pauses and drops his arm to his side. His face softens. He collapses back into his chair. "Please forgive me."

"There is nothing to forgive. I am very sorry."

The farmer raises his face to look at the doctor. "Is she suffering?"

"No. Until the swelling in her brainstem subsides, she won't experience anything at all. If that happens, she may remain comatose. If we're very lucky, she might regain some degree of consciousness. She might be able to dream. She might not."

"So," the farmer says, "we wait."

"It will be expensive."

The farmers voice stays thin though there is steel in his grey eyes. "Damn the expense. Without her it doesn't matter if I lose everything."



Pinkie and Featherweight sit at either side of a table at Sugarcube Corner. Most days the cafe would be busy, but for some reason today business is slow. Mrs. Cake is puttering around the kitchen, washing trays and singing to herself softly.

Pound has just gone to the park, where there's a big open field with no trees waiting to snag his kite.

"I don't understand," Pinkie says. "If you knew where it was all along, why didn't you say something? And how did you know it was inside here? I still don't understand how that happened."

"I brought it down, when I got here, Pinkie," Featherweight admitted. "I was looking for you and saw the kite in the tree. I saw you were taking things out of the shed, so I decided to bring it down. That's all."

"And you let poor little Pound Cake worry all that time? I told you it was the most important thing and you betrayed us, you betrayer-er!"

Featherweight looks away. "I'm sorry. I promise there was a good reason, but I can't tell you now."

"A good reason? A good reason?! Do you really think I'm going to fall for that. Do you really think I won't get you to spill the beans? Hold on, mister. You don't know beans about beans yet!" Pinkie gets up. "Can I get you something to drink? 'Cuz we're gonna be here for a while!"

Before Featherweight can answer, the bell over the door rings and Rainbow Dash walks in to the Corner. Pinkie and Featherweight turn to see her.

"Hey, Pinkie, what's happening?"

"Oh, nothing much, Dashie. I'm just interrogating a secret agent here."



"I don't know, Mary, why don't you take a look at it?"

Mary sighs, sets her iced tea down on the counter, and looks at her husband. He's pale but maybe it's the gypsum dust.

"I don't see what you're so worked up about," she says. "It's just a room. A creepy abandoned room that makes you wonder what happened, but just a room nevertheless."

"Why don't you see for yourself?" Abe says. "I'll just—I've got to shower up."

And so Mary climbs the creaky stares of the old farm house to the upper floor, turns down the hall, and faces the forgotten door. She turns the knob and steps into the pink room.

Mary can't understand what's gotten into her husband, they'll just clean it out and have another bedroom—one more than they thought they had paid for, even. The more she thinks about it, the more she thinks it might be a good idea to leave it mostly the same. There's a wonderful little reading nook built into the dormer looking over the back yard, little pillows and white lace drapes.

And there are books, too, a whole case full of them: cookbooks, comics, a complete Foxfire set, and trade textbooks from electricity to soil science. Mary can barely hold in her laughter over one title—not a little girl's room, then, and she wonders who was the friend who bought her a cookbook like that and how much they laughed over it all those years ago.

A round box sits on the bookcase, too, short and squat on three stubby scroll legs. A simple pattern of beads wanders over its brown surface, punctuated by a big yellow daisy. Mary picks it up and carries it to the reading nook; its weight and the absence of any rattling sound suggests that it might be a music box, not one for jewelry.

Mary brushes aside the curtains and ducks into the nook, curling up by the window and cradling the box in her lap. She looks out the window, across the lawn at the trees waving softly in the wind, but only for a minute or two before she lifts the lid of the box.

It is indeed a music box, and somehow the mechanism has survived the decades. There isn't a ballerina inside—or rather, there is a ballerina revolving upon the clockwork base, but not a human one. She is some kind of small horse or pony standing on a hind leg, sculpted in pale yellow porceline, with two feathered wings spread from her back. She points one foreleg outstretched and holds the other close to her chest. Her eyes are closed, a look of blissful concentration written across her face and a single white feather is tucked into her gray mane behind one ear.

A pair of daisies mark either of her quarters. She is graceful, somber even, but the music is light and full of the joy of living.



"Pinkie Pie," Dash says, "you can call me crazy, but I'm pretty sure that's Featherweight, not a secret agent."

"Hah! That's exactly what he wants you to think. But I'm not going to let up until he confesses."

"Confesses what?" Dash asks.

"That he's part of a secret plot to undermind harmony in Ponyville by taking ponies' things and letting them spend the whole day trying to find them, that's what! The only thing I haven't figured out is whether he's working for zebra nationalists or griffon sympathizers."

Dash raises an eyebrow at Featherweight. "Seriously?"

"I have no regrets," the colt answers, raising a forehoof in salute.

"Yeah, okay," Dash says. "Pinkie, look at me and take a deep breath. We have a little situation. Kind of a 'party problem' you could say. Twilight wanted to throw a party, but she's forgotten the most important part, you see—"

Pinkie interrupts Dash with a hoof to her mouth. "Oh no. I bet she's so embarrassed and too proud to ask for help. Don't worry. Pinkie Pie is on this like glue on something that needs to be sticky."

"Great," Dash says. "Daisydancer square. You know where that is, right? Pretty much you go—"

But before she can finish speaking, Pinkie is gone. The bell jingles over the door.

Dash turns to Featherweight. "Seriously? That's what you and Pound came up with? Well, at least it worked, right?"

Featherweight nods.

"Well, come on then. We don't want to miss this."



Beep. Beep. Whoosh-click. Beep.

The lights are low in Diane's room and her friends have all gone home. Her father knows before too long he'll have to go too, but he'll wait until they make him, just like he has day after day.

He sits by her side, his hand gently resting on hers.

Three baloons float tied at the foot of her bed, two blue and one gold, the colors of the school she worked so hard to get into.



Pinkie Pie rounds the last corner cantering towards the square. To her surprise, there's already a party there, what she estimates to be eighty-three percent of Ponyville's population turned. That's not bad at all, especially considering that this is the first time adorkable little Twilight has tried to put together anything more than a little get-together for the six of them.

She scans her eyes around, wondering what's missing. There's the punch, the snacks, the live music, the streamers—you can't ever forget the streamers. Most of all it looks like ponies are having a good time, and what more could she ask for?

Twilight's voice calls out over the crowd. "Okay, here she is, everypony."

A roar erupts from the crowd. "Surprise, Pinkie Pie!"

Pinkie doesn't know where to look. Everypony is cheering and stomping their hooves for her and at one end of the square a cloth glows with Twilight's magic and slips to the ground. Behind it an archway reads: "The Ponyville Pinkie Pie Appreciation Party."

In that moment everything is as perfect and magical as a dream. The party goes on long into the night.



In the center of the square, in the middle of the party stands a fountain. A pegasus dancer stands on one hind leg, her wings outstretched, water pouring from her outstretched hoof. There is a look of blissful concentration on her face.

Her cutie mark is a daisy, and life in Ponyville is a full life indeed.