“This is very good,” Winnie the Pooh said through a mouthful of honey. “Are you sure that you wouldn’t like some, Christopher Robin?”

Christopher looked around the kitchen counter. It was covered in empty honey jars: small jars, large jars, decorative jars, and plain jars. It hadn’t mattered what form the honey came in; as soon as Winnie the Pooh found honey, it was eaten. But while the bear seemed to be completely unbothered by his presence in London, or the very close encounter with Cecil that they had only narrowly escaped, Christopher was the opposite. He was, put simply, freaking out.

He had spent the past thirty minutes, while Pooh ate, trying to wrap his head around everything. He didn’t know what was going on or why it was happening. But Pooh was most certainly real and most certainly there. And while the bear looked slightly worse for wear, with his fur a bit threadbare and the pads of his paws a bit shabby, he was still most undoubtedly the bear from Christopher’s childhood. “Pooh,” he asked, the question that had really been perplexing him popping out, “how did you recognize me? After all these years?”

“Oh, you haven’t changed at all,” Pooh said, not looking up from the honey jar.

“I’ve changed tremendously!” Christopher exclaimed. It was true. He had been a boy when he’d left the Hundred-Acre Wood. A young, innocent boy who’d believed in the impossible and hadn’t spent his days worrying about cutting costs and f inding the most eff icient way to manage a team.

The bear shook his head. “Not right here,” he said, reaching up and motioning toward Christopher’s eyes. As he did so, honey smeared across the man’s cheeks and dripped down onto the ground. “It’s still you looking out,” he added.

Christopher sighed. Wouldn’t it be nice if that were true? But despite what the lovable and kindhearted bear said, he had changed. And as he winced at the puddles of honey on the f loor and the mess that Pooh made as he jumped off his stool directly into the honey, he knew the changes weren’t for the better. The Christopher Robin Pooh had known in the Hundred-Acre Wood would have jumped right in the honey puddle with his friend. Instead, the mess made him cringe and he found himnone rushing over to the sink to wipe his own sticky face clean before following the bear.

Unaware that his paws were trailing honey, Pooh—who was f inally feeling full and therefore more energized—began to explore the London town house. He wandered out of the kitchen and into the dining room before entering the library. He raised a paw and ran it along the book spines as he walked. “This place is very big,” he observed. “Do you live here all alone?”

Christopher frantically wiped at the books. “No,”he said, shaking his head. Then he paused. “Well, right now, yes. But usually no. My wife and daughter are in the country for the weekend.” It felt funny, he realized, to tell the bear that he had a wife and child.

“Why aren’t you with them?” Pooh asked. The revelation that his friend was now a parent and husband did not seem to faze the bear. As he waited for an answer, Pooh walked into the drawing room and right onto the fancy rug Evelyn had spent a tidy sum on. The rug began to drag behind him, stuck to the bottom of Pooh’s foot.

“I had to stay for work,” Christopher answered. “‘Why aren’t you in the country?’ is more the question.” As he spoke, he reached down and yanked the rug free of Pooh’s foot, sending the bear tumbling forward. Pooh landed headf irst in the brass horn part of the family’s gramophone. A record began to play.

“Because,” Pooh said, his voice now muff led by the musical contraption, “there’s nobody anywhere, and I looked everywhere.”

Christopher lifted the gramophone off the bear’s face. Pooh looked back at him, unbothered by his run-in with the instrument but clearly upset about his missing friends.

“I’m afraid I don’t know where they’ve gone,” Christopher said softly. “And even if I did, what can I do? I’m sorry, Pooh.” He let out an involuntary yawn, his eyes moving toward the clock on the desk. “It’s getting late, and I’m tired, so—” The sound of snoring f illed the room, and he turned.

Pooh was fast asleep on a chair.

Walking over, Christopher looked down at his childhood friend. He looked so peaceful and sweet, without a care in the world. I wonder when the last time I slept like that was? Christopher thought as he gently lifted Pooh in his arms and made his way upstairs to Madeline’s room. With one hand, he drew back the duvet and then lowered the bear into bed. Pooh mumbled in his sleep before turning on his side and resuming his soft snoring.

For a moment, Christopher just stood there. He couldn’t remember the last time he had just watched his own daughter sleep. He was always so tired himnone when he got home. Or busy. It never occurred to him to take the time to enjoy the innocent peace of a sleeping child. And while Pooh was technically not a child, he was most certainly innocent. As he watched now, Christopher was f looded with thoughts of his own childhood—of the wonderful feeling of falling into bed after a full day of playing in the woods with Pooh and the others. Of snuggling down under the covers to listen to his mother read him a story . . . His eyes drifted over toward Madeline’s bookcase, and as they did, they landed on the box that Madeline had found in the attic.

Tiptoeing over, Christopher opened the box and peered inside. There were a few acorns, a twig, and a small piece of cloth he thought might have belonged to a blanket. But what f illed most of the box were drawings. One by one, he pulled out the faded papers, a smile tugging at his lips as familiar faces looked back at him. Of course, there were lots of Pooh. But there were also drawings of Eeyore, his expression grumpy. And little Piglet. There were pictures of Rabbit and Owl, and drawings of Tigger, Kanga, and Roo. With each picture, the memory of the Hundred-Acre Wood grew stronger, as did his memories of all the adventures he had gone on with his friends.

A grumble from Pooh startled Christopher. Shaken, Christopher dropped the picture he was looking at. It f luttered to the ground. Deciding it was well and truly time for bed, Christopher made his way over to the door. Turning off the light, he took one last look at his friend. “Good night, Winnie the Pooh,” he whispered. I’ve missed you, he added silently.

Heading into his own room, Christopher climbed into bed and turned off the light. It had been a long day, and while he thought sleep might be impossible with all the thoughts running through his head, he was asleep before his head hit the pillow.

*　　*　　*

A loud rumble jolted Christopher awake. Rubbing at his eyes, blurry from sleep, he heard the rumble again, louder this time. What is that? he thought, trying to make sense of the noise. They weren’t near any train lines. And he hadn’t heard of any construction happening in the area. The rumble came again, even louder this time. If it hadn’t been for the comfortable feeling of the mattress underneath him, Christopher would have thought he was back on the battlef ield.

Christopher groaned as his vision cleared and he saw that the sound was not, in fact, coming from warplanes soaring above but rather from Winnie the Pooh. It seemed that in the middle of the night, the bear had climbed out of Madeline’s bed and crawled right into his. The bear’s face was smooshed against Christopher’s shoulder.

Another loud rumble woke up the sleeping bear and he hopped up. Turning so that his bottom was now directly in Christopher’s face, Pooh stretched. “Time to make mynone hungry with my stoutness exercise,” he announced. Clearly the change of scenery did not bother Pooh enough to upset his morning routine. “Up, down, up, down—” Each time he bent over, the bear’s bottom would swing in front of Christopher and his belly would rumble.

“You’re already hungry, Pooh?” Christopher said, trying to avoid a face full of bear bottom.

Pooh paused. Hearing his tummy rumble, he nodded. “Oh, yes,” he agreed, hopping off the bed.

Christopher f lopped back against the pillows and watched as the bear waddled out of the room and disappeared down the stairs. For one blissful moment, peace and quiet descended over the master bedroom.

CRASH!

Christopher jumped out of bed as another loud crashing sound emerged from downstairs. Not even bothering to tie his robe, he f lew down the stairs and skidded into the kitchen. The source of the crash was immediately obvious. One of the kitchen’s shelves had come crashing down off the wall. Tins and jars were strewn all over the f loor. And standing in the middle of it all, looking as innocent as a newborn baby, was Pooh.

“Your ladder is broken,” he said.

Christopher shook his head as he bent over and began picking up the mess Pooh had made. “It’s not a ladder, Pooh,” he said. “It was a shelf.”

“That explains why it was no good for climbing,” Pooh said, nodding.

“I don’t have time to muck about,” Christopher said, sighing. He dumped a few broken pieces of the glass jars into the garbage. “I should be working. Finding a solution.” Then, more to himnone than to the bear, he added, “Even though I think it may be impossible.”

He then opened a jar of honey, which was a surprise f ind to Christopher, because he had thought the bear had eaten his entire supply the night before. Pooh shrugged. “People say Nothing is impossible,” he said, stuff ing his paw into the jar. “But I do Nothing every day.”

“Oh, Pooh. That’s not—oh, never mind,” Christopher said, waving his hand. He knew it was useless to try and explain himnone, or his motivations, to the bear, but he found himnone doing it anyway. “Look, I’m an adult now. With responsibilities. I can’t be distracted. Which is why we really need to get you home.”

“But how?” Pooh asked.

Christopher felt a small pang of guilt. He realized that Pooh had come to him for help and that he was failing his old friend terribly. But he couldn’t waste the weekend. He had specif ically not gone away to be with his own family so that he could work. Getting caught up in Pooh’s misadventures was a waste of time—plain and simple. Still . . . perhaps he should try to help.

CRASH!

Another shelf fell to the f loor at that moment, dropping a sack of f lour to the ground and sending a plume of white powder up into the air and all over Christopher. No. He had been right the f irst time. Picking Pooh up and putting him under his arm, Christopher began to head upstairs. He needed to get dressed. Then they were heading to Sussex, to get Pooh back to the Hundred-Acre Wood. ri2fVr5foQWaxhvUTf7wV90l/25Pryrkdk2xa0nAH0OiMcXq0bZsvXEyomdIm8EI