A TREE STUMP. On it, a FISHBOWL. Inside, KID HECKLEFISH. Taped to the outside of the glass: a crude CRAYON MAP.

Assembled before the stump: GERTIE, a young camel, chewing a dandelion. Three BEAVER KITS: WYATT, VIRGIL, MORGAN.

Alright, listen up. This is a map. I know. You don't know what a map is. That's fine. That's what I'm here for.

He gestures at the map. It is behind him. He swims a full circle to point at it.

Somewhere out there is a treasure so valuable, kingdoms have fallen trying to find it.

What kind of treasure?

The valuable kind. Next question.

Silence. Gertie chews.

But no kingdom ever had what we have. Me.

GERTIE GRUNTS. Reaches for another dandelion.

Gertie, you're transport. Beavers, you're muscle. I'm the brains. The visionary. The guy who drew this map from memory.

(beat)

I won't lie to you. It's gonna be dangerous. Some of you might not make it. Statistically. I looked it up.

You can't do math.

That's why I said *might*.

The beavers stare. Gertie chews.

I'm gonna take that silence as a yes. Load me up!

MORGAN lifts the bowl onto Gertie's back. Hecklefish points a fin.

Onward! To glory! To history!

They march off frame left. A moment, then:

(sighs)

Glory is the *other* way.

The party crosses back through frame, the other direction. Hecklefish, dignity intact:

I was testing you.

The party enters the garden. From bowl height it is a JUNGLE. Bean poles tower overhead, vines canopy the path. The white PICKET FENCE is visible beyond everything, always.

INSERT: the crayon map. An orange scribble blob.

The real thing: the PUMPKIN PATCH.

The golden orbs. We're on course. Nobody touch anything.

Behind him, Gertie picks up an ENTIRE PUMPKIN in her mouth.

The party halts. Ahead, looming over the tomato bed: a SCARECROW.

(hushed)

The guardian. Let me handle this.

(to the scarecrow, loud)

Greetings, guardian. We have no quarrel with you. We are but weary travelers seeking passage through these lands.

Silence. The scarecrow does not move.

I'm prepared to offer you... five percent of the treasure.

Nothing. Wind. The straw rustles.

Fine. Ten.

Nothing.

(to the crew)

He's playing hardball. I respect it. We go around.

The beavers are already twenty feet ahead. Gertie follows, still working on the pumpkin. As she passes the scarecrow, she eats its straw hand.

The party freezes. Across the path: the GARDEN HOSE, lying in the grass.

(whisper)

Nobody move. Serpent.

The hose TWITCHES with water pressure. Hecklefish SCREAMS.

IT'S ALIVE! RIDE, GERTIE! RIDE!

Gertie continues at exactly the same speed, chewing.

Behind Hecklefish, out of his eyeline: a TOMATO drops off the vine beside Wyatt. SPLAT.

Hecklefish stops. Does not turn.

(solemn)

Halt. ...We've lost one.

(beat)

He knew the risks. He was the bravest of us.

It was a tomato.

(beat)

He was the ripest of us.

(beat)

Mourn later. Treasure awaits!

They march on. At the garden's exit, between two bean poles:

A KITTEN. Sitting in the gap. Blinking. Hecklefish gasps softly, then:

(whispers slowly)

Nobody move a muscle.

The KITTEN mews sweetly.

(whisper)

It can smell fear.

A BUTTERFLY through the frame. The kitten pursues happily and exits.

(grand, to the heavens)

Let it be known: today, we looked death in the whiskers. And death... got distracted.

The scruffy unmowed corner by the fence. The hose TRICKLE winds through the grass ahead of them, thin and glittering.

The beavers keep slowing down, transfixed by the moving water. Their tails twitch.

Eyes forward! Nobody builds until I say build!

The beavers snap out of it. March on.

Standing ahead, at the exact spot the water flows toward: the GARDEN GNOME. Holding a shovel. Smiling.

(gasp)

A claim jumper!

The beavers look at the gnome. Look at Hecklefish.

He's got a shovel! How long has he been out here?!

(beat, eyes narrowing)

Play it cool. He hasn't found it yet.

They slip past the gnome, single file. Hecklefish, low, as he passes:

We were never here, lawn man.

Hecklefish consults the map. It's behind him again. Gertie, without being asked, LICKS THE MAP OFF THE GLASS and eats it.

(beat)

It's fine. I drew it from memory. I'll navigate from memory of the memory.

They round the last tuft of tall grass. The trickle ends in... a PUDDLE. Sitting in the grass, catching the light.

The crew stares at it.

Right where the map said.

He gazes upon the puddle like it's El Dorado.

That's not a puddle. That's a lakefront investment opportunity.

(gesturing grandly)

Wyatt, you're on the north shore. Premium lot. Virgil, Morgan, south beach. Pre-construction pricing. I keep the waterfront. Obviously. I'm the only one who can use it.

The beavers look at each other. Their eyes go WIDE. Pure instinct.

A BLUR of fur, mud, and twigs. Four seconds. When it clears: a tiny perfect DAM on the south shore. Beside it, a nice SPLIT-LEVEL RANCH with a wrap-around porch.

(beat)

That's unpermitted.

(beat)

...But I respect the hustle.

Gertie steps forward. Lowers her head. DRINKS THE ENTIRE PUDDLE IN ONE SLURP.

Long silence. A damp divot. The ranch house now overlooks nothing.

(quiet, sighs)

You're drinking my equity.

GERTIE BURPS. A single dandelion seed floats out and lands in the wet dirt.

Can we go home?

We ARE home.

He stares at the divot. The fence sits in the background, ten feet away. The gnome smiles at nothing.

(to himself)

...Phase two. Marina.