"MINE! I grabbed it first!" Pippin yanks the jump-rope from the bin. The cord snaps free with a zip.
The rope slaps the sandy ground. Thwack. His friend turns, lips pressed flat, and stomps away.
Pippin huffs against the climbing frame. Across the yard, his friend plops on the oak bench, staring at the dirt.
Only the swings creak—creak, creak, creak. The whole yard holds still.
Pippin drags himself up a swing. Knees tight. The jump-rope coils in his lap, heavy and warm.
He tugs one end, drips it, tugs again. He looks up—the bench is empty.
Pippin marches over, the rope dangling from one hand like a sad flag. "…truce?" he whispers.
His friend points. "You CAN'T just—" He stops, hooks a pinky, and Pippin hooks his.
They link arms on the swings, the rope looped between their hands. Higher, higher, higher still.
The oak's shadow stretches long across the sand. Pippin whoops. His friend whoops back.
