At the playground, the tallest slide rose like a golden tower against the morning sky. Other kids whooped and zoomed past, leaving bright trails of laughter behind them.
Elliot gripped the cold metal ladder, his knuckles white. Click, click, click. Each rung was a promise he kept making to himself. When he reached the top, he sat on the edge and peeked down the long orange curve.
His small feet swung once, twice — then he pushed off. Whoosh. He was flying.
At school, Elliot watched a boy trip on the playground and spill his lunch tray. A group of older kids pointed and laughed. Elliot's fingers tightened around his backpack strap.
He took one step toward the laughter, then stopped. The cafeteria bell rang. Elliot walked over to the boy on the ground and held out his own apple. The boy looked up, surprised, and took it with a quiet thank you.
Elliot walked back to his table. The laughter behind him faded into the chatter of the cafeteria.
Years later, Elliot stood in a doorway of a building he didn't recognize yet. A job interview. His palms were damp against the folder the interviewer slid across the desk.
He opened it. Inside was a sketch of a lighthouse — one he had drawn as a child. The interviewer raised an eyebrow.
"I'd like to try," Elliot said. The interviewer smiled and nodded. His shoulders dropped half an inch.
Years later again, Elliot sat on the edge of a crib in a soft blue nursery. He watched his own child grip his finger with both hands.
The baby's thumb found his knuckle and curled — the same way Elliot once gripped the ladder rungs. Outside, a distant whoop of laughter rose from a playground.
Elliot squeezed the tiny hand back. "Your turn," he whispered. The baby blinked up at him, serious as a little judge, then let out a breathy giggle that filled the whole room.