What a passage must be

Goodbye, Tooth!

I sit at my school table. My tooth is loose today. I wiggle it, and it wiggles back. Wiggle, wiggle, little tooth!

It wiggles, and out it comes! I look at the gap. My hand finds the gap too. I like my little gap.

So I run to the children. I say, “Look, my tooth came out!” They say, “I want to see!” We laugh, and we play.

Then I put the tooth in my box. The box is safe and small. Wiggle, wiggle, goodbye tooth—now you ride home with me.

At home, I show my mother. She says, “You are big now!” I put the box on my bed. Wiggle, wiggle, out it came. My gap, my box, my home.

The Missing Book

On Tuesday afternoon, Maya carried The Secret of Star Island to the front desk. She wanted to check it in before class. Mister Chen scanned the barcode, then set the book beside his computer. Twiggy the parrot rattled his cage latch, the way he always did near something shiny. A loud crash rang out near the art table. Mister Chen hurried off to help. Maya turned to look, too. When he came back, the book was gone.

Then Maya noticed something peculiar. A blue feather lay on the counter, matching the parrot on her book’s cover. She hesitated; the feather seemed too strange to ignore. So she decided to investigate. A trail of feathers led past the shelves and behind a curtain.

The trail stopped at a cozy nook by the window, where Twiggy’s favorite perch sat empty. A corner of blue cover peeked out from beneath the cushion there. Maya lifted the cushion and gasped. Her missing book lay underneath, safe but a little chewed at one corner.

A mischievous squawk rang out behind her. Twiggy had slipped his cage and perched on a shelf, clutching a scrap of shiny paper in his beak. He must have dragged the shiny cover to his nook, the way he always dragged shiny things. Mister Chen laughed and caught the bird, while Maya held her book, triumphant. Twiggy squawked once more, as though he still owned the whole mystery.

How Agave Survives the Dry Season

Rain may vanish for months. Yet agave plants survive this harsh pause because their leaves, roots, and rhythms conserve water. An agave is a succulent, a plant that stores water in thick leaves. Its leaves form a rosette around a short stem, and this shape directs rare drops toward the center. The plant looks still. Its structure protects.

Each leaf has an outer skin called the epidermis, which limits damage and slows water escaping into dry air. A pale, waxy coating reflects intense sunlight, while spines discourage animals from piercing the leaves. Inside, water-holding tissue contains mucilage, a slippery gel that keeps moisture from moving too quickly. These layers work together because desert air constantly draws water from living things.

Agave roots spread through shallow soil, so they can absorb brief rain before heat returns. When the soil dries, root growth pauses until moisture becomes available again. The roots wait. Some species grow a taproot, one thick root reaching downward, whereas others make networks of fine, fibrous roots. Either design gives the plant a better chance of finding water after a rare storm.

Agave controls when it exchanges gases with the air. Tiny openings, called stomata, admit carbon dioxide for photosynthesis, but they can also release water vapor. The openings close during hot daylight hours, when evaporation would be fastest. At night, however, cooler temperatures allow the plant to take in carbon dioxide with less water loss overall. This unusual schedule is called CAM photosynthesis, a process that separates gas intake from food-making. Sunlight then supplies the energy for food-making during the day.

After rain, agave refills its leaves and resumes growth, although it does not waste the sudden supply carefully. During drought, it becomes nearly dormant, meaning that growth slows and stored resources are carefully guarded. Its saved water keeps cells firm and allows essential chemical reactions to continue. The plant waits. Eventually, flowers rise above the spiny leaves, and bats or insects carry pollen between blossoms so seeds can develop. This timing matters because reproduction must follow survival, not compete with it during the driest, longest months. Agave survives drought not by finding constant rain, but by collecting water, limiting loss, and slowing its needs. Those adaptations help it endure conditions that would soon damage a broad-leaved tree.

Every Empty Lot Is a Choice

Every empty parking space in a growing city is a decision, because scarce land accommodates vehicles instead of residents. That choice rarely gets debated, yet it determines who can live near a workplace, a school, or a bus stop. A lot can sit half empty for hours while the housing shortage next door never pauses. The imbalance keeps expanding. Cities should therefore replace some parking with housing, especially near transit, because unused asphalt should not outrank the people who need a home.

Scarcity is the argument that matters most. Homes are limited in most cities as population rises, while parking lots remain vacant. When housing demand outruns supply, rents escalate and propel families away from the schools and employment that anchored them there. Constructing on existing parking parcels adds homes without encroaching on farmland at the city's edge, so growth need not signify sprawl. Additional housing will not resolve every problem, but careful construction can alleviate the pressure.

Parking also represents what economists call an opportunity cost, the value lost when land performs one function instead of a superior alternative. A surface lot might generate a modest levy, yet an apartment building there could generate homes, customers, and tax revenue for decades. Housing reinforces nearby businesses because residents purchase groceries, meals, and services all week.

Critics raise a legitimate concern, and it deserves a legitimate answer. Drivers still need somewhere to leave their vehicles, and deliveries, workers, visitors, and people with disabilities depend on parking close to the door. If a city eliminates parking too quickly, congestion spikes and residents pay for a change they never asked for; the problem is the speed of the cuts, not the goal of replacement.

The answer, though, is not to perpetuate every space. Cities can convert parking gradually while studying how much each neighborhood truly requires, because removing more than a block can spare is what triggers backlash. They can prioritize new housing beside transit stops, where fewer residents will own a car, and designate accessible loading zones so deliveries and visitors with disabilities can reach the door. None of that means abandoning drivers; it means admitting that not every stretch of asphalt is essential.

Affordability has to sit at the center of this policy, or the whole project unravels. New apartments built on former lots can still price out the families it claims to assist, and rising rents can trigger displacement. Cities should mandate that some new homes remain below market rate and protect tenants from sudden rent increases. Parking revenue can help underwrite those safeguards, but money alone will not guarantee an equitable outcome.

This transition can also improve residents' health and air quality. When homes sit close to transit, residents can walk, cycle, or ride instead of driving, and shorter trips accumulate across a neighborhood. More housing near employment can shorten commutes if transit remains frequent. A fair plan must support residents whose mobility needs make a vehicle necessary, because accessibility is a public responsibility, not a private convenience.

Opponents are right that parking serves legitimate functions, but protecting all of it forever carries a cost that rarely gets acknowledged. Land devoted only to parked vehicles cannot shelter a family or sustain a struggling business. Cities should prioritize housing where transportation choices are strong, proceed in careful phases, and correct course whenever evidence demands it. Reclaiming some parking is not an attack on drivers; it is a decision to ask scarce urban land to serve more people than idle vehicles ever could.