The monkey bars glint in the cold morning sun. A red bench waits below, empty. The park is quiet—too quiet for a very empty tummy.
Ben dangles, legs kicking the cold air. GRRRRROWL. The pigeons scatter in every direction. He slides down the rungs—sneakers screeching on metal.
Grandma slides a plate across the table: carrot coins, cherry tomatoes, green peas. Ben shoves them all off—boing, boing, boing on the tile floor.
Grandma waggles a banana at him. "Banana boat, captain?" Ben crunches it, end to end. Yellow juice smears his chin. He grins wide.
Grandma hops, hops, hops on one foot. Ben copies. Then—ZIP—his sock launches off and BONGS the pantry door. He blinks.
Ben does a big star-jump—arms out, legs wide. His sneaker SWATS the hanging light. Flour puffs off Grandma's apron. "Whee!"
"NOT sleepy!" Ben bellows, kicking the quilt off the bed. One punch. Two. Three. Then—flop. Cheek squished into soft cotton. Tick, tick, tick.
Sun-stripes crawl the kitchen floor. Ben reaches, stretches, stomps. His little sister copies—fingers just barely touching the shelf. They bounce in time, sneakers slapping tile.