In the Land of Suspended Time, where the sun hung like a giant orange balloon and the clouds tasted like cotton candy (if you could reach them), lived a kind-hearted boy named Michael. His house was a cozy burrow under a mushroom taller than ten giraffes stacked together. The air smelled like warm cinnamon and freshly baked cookies—because, in this land, houses *were* made of gingerbread when no one was looking.

One morning, Michael stretched his arms with a yaaaawn so big it rustled the curtains. The clock on the wall, which had hands that giggled when they moved, chimed ding-dong-doo! It was time to get dressed. But today was special. Today, Michael would put on his clothes all by himself.

"I can do it!" he said, puffing out his chest like a tiny superhero. He grabbed his shirt, soft as a cloud after a nap, and stuck his head through the hole. Whoosh! The shirt landed on his nose. He wiggled. He jiggled. The shirt slid down—flop!—right over his eyes. "Blblblbl!" Michael’s voice came out muffled, like a fish trying to sing.

Next came the pants. They were striped like a candy cane and smelled like laundry day (which, in the Land of Suspended Time, meant they smelled like bubblegum and rain). Michael hopped into one leg. Hop! Then the other. Hop! But the pants were stubborn. They twisted like a pretzel, and Michael tumbled onto the floor with a boing! His left foot was now wearing the right pant leg, and his right foot was waving at the ceiling.

"This is harder than catching a sneeze!" Michael groaned. His socks, which were supposed to be a matching pair, had other plans. One sock was striped like a zebra, the other had polka dots big as pancakes. They *should* have been easy to put on—except the polka-dot sock kept playing hide-and-seek. Michael found it under the bed (achoo! dust bunnies tickled his nose), behind the cookie jar (crunch! he stepped on a rogue gingerbread man), and even inside his shoe (squelch! it was damp in there—had it rained inside?).

Just as Michael was about to give up and wear his pajamas forever, he heard a tiny snicker-snack. It was the polka-dot sock, peeking out from the laundry basket like a mischievous mouse. "Gotcha!" Michael lunged—whoosh!—and missed. The sock somersaulted onto his head, dangling over one eye like a silly hat. Michael giggled. Then he tried again. This time, he wiggled his toes inside the sock slowly, like a worm inching into its burrow. Success!

With both socks on (even if they *did* look like they belonged to two different clowns), Michael tackled his shoes. The left shoe was easy. Click! The right shoe, however, was being difficult. It kept shrinking! Or was Michael’s foot growing? He stomped. He wiggled. Finally, he stuck his tongue out (just a little) and pushed. Pop! The shoe slid on, snug as a hug from a teddy bear.

Michael stood up, wobbled like a newborn giraffe, and grinned. His shirt was on backward, his pants were twisted, and his socks were arguing about who was prettier—but he had done it. All by himself. The clock on the wall clapped its hands clap-clap-clap!, and the gingerbread walls smelled even sweeter, like victory and a little bit of frosting.

From that day on, Michael still got dressed a little crooked sometimes. His socks still played hide-and-seek, and his pants still pretended to be pretzels. But he never gave up. Because in the Land of Suspended Time, where the sun never set and the cookies never crumbled, the best adventures were the ones you kept trying—even when your shirt ended up on your head.