Pippin booted the football clean over his friends' heads. It pinged off the metal slide with a sharp ring and skidded across the hot sandbox, spraying grains into the air. The three of them scattered in whooping sprints while Pippin's sneakers squeaked on the black asphalt as he jogged to catch up.
He wiped his sweaty brow and crouched low, toes dragging in the fine dust. Feet wide. Ball squared up. The park hummed around him—a distant bark, wheels scraping gravel—and Pippin squared his shoulders and took a breath that stirred not a thread of air, because it was far too warm for even that.
His next kick sent the ball rocketing across the grass and plunging into the park's shallow pond with a wet, sloshing plap. Ripples exploded outward in fat rings. The ball settled between two lily pads, bobbing gently in the still, dark water.
The ball bobbed among the lily pads, rocking slow and lazy in the still water. A fat dragonfly had landed right on its muddy crown, iridescent wings splayed wide. Ripples faded at the edges. The afternoon sun turned every drop to tiny coins of gold. No one moved. No one breathed.
Pippin's mouth fell wide open, his sneakers planted on the dry grass at the pond's edge. Mara tugged his sleeve hard, her chin up and her eyes narrow. "We have to get it out," she said, jabbing a finger at the bobbing ball. "And before the dragonfly files a formal complaint, if you please."
They waded ankle-deep into the cool, sucking mud, reaching and scooping, but the ball kept sliding through their fingers. Then a big brown turtle clamped its jaw on the ball and started dragging it in slow, stately circles. "What—is—that?!" Leo yelled, pointing, his glasses askew.
The turtle stopped, set the ball down with a soft thunk, and just sat on it, chewing contentedly. Pippin's sneaker squelched and twitched as the afternoon sun beat down the other side of the pond. Mara snorted, then doubled over giggling, and Pippin tipped his backwards cap, laughing. He knelt, pried the ball free, and the turtle slid into the shallows without a sound.
Pippin bounced the mud-splattered ball on the warm asphalt, watching it thump-thump-thump. His friends fell into line on the other side, arms swinging, lacing up their shoes. A sparrow trilled from the oak above and the afternoon light turned everything to gold. "Round two?" he called, and the ball whistled through the air again.