In the Land of Suspended Time, where the clocks had all taken a nap and the sun hung in the sky like a lazy balloon, lived a boy named Mason. His hair was the color of caramel left too long in the sun, and his laughter sounded like wind chimes in a gentle breeze. Mason’s house was a cozy burrow at the foot of a giant mushroom, its cap striped red and white like a candy cane. The air always smelled of warm cinnamon and the faint tang of rain-soaked earth.

One morning, Mason’s tummy let out a growl so loud it made the teacups on the shelf clink-clink in surprise. "Oh dear," Mason said, rubbing his belly. "I need a snack!" He skipped to the kitchen, where the floorboards creaked like old bones under his feet. The countertop was cool and smooth as a river stone, and on it sat a bowl of plump, shiny apples—red as fire trucks and smelling like sunshine. Next to them, a jar of peanut butter stood tall, its lid sticky with golden drips. A loaf of bread, soft as a cloud, waited nearby, still warm from the oven.

"Perfect!" Mason clapped his hands. "An apple peanut butter sandwich!" He reached for the bread, but—whoosh!—it slid away like a slippery fish. Mason gasped. The bread had sprouted tiny legs and was now doing a little dance on the counter. "Hey!" Mason laughed. "That’s not very polite!" He lunged again, but the bread leaped into the air and landed on top of the fridge with a boing!. The peanut butter jar giggled, its lid wobbling like a jelly belly.

Mason scratched his head. "Hmm. Maybe I need a plan." He grabbed a stool, its wooden seat rough like tree bark under his fingers. He climbed up, but the bread rolled off the fridge and plopped into a bowl of flour. Poof! A white cloud exploded, covering Mason from head to toe. He sneezed—achoo!—and his nose twitched like a rabbit’s. The flour smelled like a bakery at dawn, but Mason’s eyes watered. "Okay, okay," he said, wiping his face. "Let’s try something else."

He tiptoed toward the peanut butter jar, but it hopped away, leaving a trail of sticky footprints. The apples, round and gleaming, started rolling toward him like little red marbles. Roll, roll, roll! They bumped into his toes, tickling like tiny fingers. Mason giggled but stood firm. "I won’t give up!" he declared. He grabbed a spoon and swung it like a lasso. Swish! The peanut butter jar dodged, but Mason was quicker. He scooped a big glob of peanut butter and—splat!—it landed right on the counter. The bread, now dusted with flour, waddled over like a little ghost. Mason pressed it into the peanut butter, then added a slice of apple. Crunch! The apple’s juices squirted out, sweet and tangy like summer rain.

Mason took a bite. Mmm! The flavors exploded in his mouth—creamy, crunchy, sweet, and salty all at once. The bread, peanut butter, and apple cheered, clapping their tiny hands (or in the bread’s case, its tiny crusts). The kitchen smelled like victory: warm, buttery, and full of laughter. Mason’s cheeks puffed out like a squirrel’s, and he grinned. "See?" he said. "Even the trickiest snacks can’t hide forever!"

And from that day on, whenever Mason’s tummy growled, he remembered: the best snacks are the ones you work for. Even if they dance, giggle, or turn you into a flour monster first.