Tyson ran across the playground sand. Elea stood by the swings, holding a blue bubble wand.
She blew, and a huge bubble floated toward Tyson. It bounced off his outstretched hand.
Tyson chased a bubble toward the slide. It drifted just out of reach. He reached again, and again.
The bubble landed on his finger and popped with a wet pop. Elea smiled. You caught one.
Tyson took the wand. He puffed his cheeks and blew hard. A bubble formed and collapsed back into the wand.
Elea knelt beside him. Soft, she said. She blew gently, and a stream of bubbles floated up.
Tyson tried soft. One bubble wobbled free and sailed toward a tree.
Elea blew the biggest bubble yet. It grew enormous, shimmering gold in the sun. Tyson ran and leaped—his hands missed by a hair.
The bubble bounced off the slide, rolled across the ground, then lifted again and floated up, up, up.
Tyson jumped and jumped until his feet left the ground, but it kept rising. He stopped and just watched it become a tiny dot.
Then he laughed—a big, loud laugh that made him fall backward onto the soft mulch.
Tyson walked beside Elea to the playground gate. Will you be here next time?
Elea squeezed his hand. Every week. Tyson let go and skipped toward the sidewalk.
His fingers were still sticky with bubble solution. He was already counting the days.