Tag! You're it! Milo punched the air during a wild game of tag, his elbow catching Leo right in the shoulder. Leo rubbed his arm. That actually hurt, Milo. The bell rang — a loud buzzy sound — and Milo walked to the swing set alone.
Milo watched Leo laugh with Sam and Priya on the monkey bars. Their sneakers squeaked against the metal. He sat on a swing and pushed himself forward slowly. The chains creaked. He didn't know what to do with his hands.
Milo, can you set the table? his mom called from the kitchen. He marched to the cupboard and slammed a bowl down a little too hard. The ceramic clattered against the wooden table.
His dad patted his shoulder. Milo flinched away. I didn't mean to hit Leo, he mumbled. Tell me about it at dinner, his dad said gently.
At dinner, Milo's little sister bumped his elbow. Juice spilled across the table. Milo looked at his mom's worried face, his dad's patient eyes, his sister's wide-open mouth forming an oh.
He reached out and wrapped both his hands around hers. I love you guys, he said. His little sister giggled into her napkin.
The next morning at school, Milo spotted Leo walking toward him across the playground. Milo took a deep breath. He opened his arms.
Leo ran into a hug that lifted them both off their feet. They bounced once, twice, three times. Then they sprinted back to the game. Tag! You're it!
Tag! You're it! The game roared back to life. Milo ran fast, his sneakers squeaking against the rubber, his chest light, his hands open and ready.
Milo laughed and ran. He had learned something important — sometimes the bravest thing is to try again.