Page 37 of Who Let The Wolves Out?

“Yeah,” he says, his voice unreadable. “It was a good game.”

More silence.

I try again. “You’ve been good with the kids. All summer.”

“Thanks.”

It’s like we’re back at the beginning. Like nothing ever happened. Like we haven’t kissed, or talked about fear, or shared anything deeper than sunscreen.

I open my mouth—then close it.

Because whatever I want to say feels too messy.

And he doesn’t look like he wants messy from me anymore.

So I stand up.

He doesn’t stop me.

“Goodnight, Jason,” I whisper.

He nods.

And I walk away.

I’m halfway back to the cabin, heart a mess, when I hear a soft sniffle behind the arts shed.

I pause, listen. Another tiny sob.

I follow the sound, and there she is—Rubi. One of the youngest campers. Barely eight. Curled up on the grass beside the paint bins, clutching a friendship bracelet so tight it’s cutting into her palm.

“Rubi?” I kneel gently. “Hey, what’s going on?”

She doesn’t answer at first. Just hiccups through tears.

I reach into my back pocket and pull out a tissue. “Here. It’s okay.”

She takes it, dabs her nose. “They said it’s ugly,” she whispers.

My heart breaks a little. “Who did?”

“Some of the older girls. They said my bracelet looks like spaghetti.”

I bite back a smile. “Well, Ilovespaghetti.”

She doesn’t laugh.

I sit next to her. “Let me see.”

She hands it over—wobbly knots, mismatched colors, uneven ends. It’s perfect.

“This,” I say softly, “is made with heart. That’s what matters.”

She sniffles again. “You think so?”

“I know so.”

She leans against my side. Small. Warm. Quiet.

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