Last spring I had laid an almost identical set on the kitchen island.
Caleb had not even tried his on.
“I’m not wearing a matching outfit,” he had said.
Noah had pushed the child’s shirt back into my hands.
“Too silly. I don’t want it.”
Now Noah reached up and smoothed Ivy’s collar with careful fingers.
“Noah,” Ivy said, turning so he could see the embroidery, “check if the paw is crooked for me.”
He checked.
He fixed it.
He looked proud to be asked.
I had returned the shirts the next morning.
Caleb’s still had the tag on it.
Now he stood still while Ivy straightened his collar for the camera.
Cameras swung.
Someone called Luna Vale.
Someone else wanted a reaction shot beside the Blackwood grid.
A lens found my face and waited for a fight over who got to stand where.
I said one word.
“Go.”
My feet stuck for a beat on the painted line.
Then I crouched, snapped Quinn’s challenge card shut where it had slipped open, and took his hand again.
“Quinn’s first heat is in seven minutes,” I said.
Felix did not block a lens.
He did not answer a single shouted question.
He walked on Quinn’s other side and kept the boy between us.
Behind us, Noah’s voice rose.
“Mom!”
Ivy’s hand settled on his shoulder a beat later.
I did not turn.
A reporter stepped into my path with a mic already live.
“Luna Vale, do you endorse this Blackwood family photo?”
“You’ll miss Quinn’s race,” I said.
“Excuse us.”
Quinn tugged my hand.
“You’ll stay until I finish?”
I looked at the first lane, where the other children were already lining up.
“The whole race.”
He let go and ran to his starting mark.
Felix stood beside me as the referee raised the whistle.
The starting whistle cut the air. The source of this chapter is g.com.
I put the relay baton into Quinn’s palm and closed his fingers around it.
“Watch your lane,” I said.
“We’ll be at the other end.”
I left the Blackwood lane behind me.
The first stride was his.
At the baton change I kept the cues short.
Pace.
Hold.
Go.
I let him run his own stretch.
When we moved to precision throw, I showed him the release with my left hand only.
Under the sleeve, the silver lines on my right flashed once and settled again.
Quinn copied the angle.
His last toss hit the center ring.
The board lit Group First.
He slammed into my chest before the cheer fully rose.
“You’re the best, Auntie E!”
My right arm started to pull back, but Quinn was already on my left side.
I hugged him with my good arm and felt his laugh against my coat.
“Did you see the last one?”
“Right in the middle,” I said.
“I saw.”
At the barrier, Noah froze.
His eyes went to my mouth first, to the smile, then to Quinn’s arms locked around my ribs.
“She’s only here for someone else,” Noah said to no one who had asked.
Caleb’s gaze moved from Quinn’s arms around me to Felix near the barrier.
Then he walked straight to the referee table and tapped the tie-break line in the published rules.
“No shared first,” he said.
“Run the listed tie-break.”
The judges looked at the rule sheet, then at the children.
Felix stepped up beside the table and pointed to the participation rule.
“The children can decline the tie-break,” Felix said.
“Let them decide.”
“My son is in this,” Caleb said.
His eyes cut to Felix before returning to me.
“If he can take the only first under the rules, he takes it.”
The teacher reloaded the schedule.
The tie-break was a paired obstacle course with a climbing wall; both adults were expected to compete.
Quinn looked at my brace before he looked at the wall.
“I don’t want to do that one.”
“You can keep second,” the referee told him. Enjoying the story? Read on at g.com.
“Are you sure?”
He nodded and reached for his ribbon.
I unclipped Quinn’s number bib and walked to the prize table myself.
“Second prize,” I told the attendant.
“He’s decided.”
The ribbon was ordinary satin.
I tied it on Quinn’s wrist and led him off the court before the tie-break whistle.
Behind us, staff pressed a custom first-place backpack into Noah’s arms.
When I turned for the exit, his face had already fallen.
Security moved next.
For safety, they said.
Half the outdoor playground emptied under Blackwood badges.
Parents pulled kids toward the parking lots.
“I can take the ground back,” Felix said, already reaching for his phone.
“No,” I said.
“A child shouldn’t watch us fight over dirt with money.”
His hand hovered over the phone for one hard beat.
Then he put it away.
The indoor claw-machine hall remained open.
I took Quinn there and showed him how to watch the claw’s center of gravity, not the prize lights.
Two plain baskets filled with ordinary plush.
He chose the biggest wolf himself and shoved it into the crook of my left arm.
“This biggest one is for you,” Quinn said.
“You showed me where to aim.”
The toy’s ridiculous head nearly hid my face.
Felix took a picture at Quinn’s insistence, then showed it to me before saving it.
I was smiling.
I let him keep it.
The claw-machine hall opened into a craft court and three food stalls.
Quinn stopped at a low table covered with cardboard walls, wooden pegs, and paper flags.
BUILD A DEN, the sign read.
CHILD GIVES THE ORDERS.
EACH ADULT MAY USE ONE HAND.
“We have to,” Quinn said.
“We absolutely do not,” Felix said.
Quinn had already spent one of his prize tokens on a kit.
Felix looked at the folded cardboard the way he looked at a floor plan with a missing exit.
“The roof has no center support.”
“It’s a pretend wolf den,” Quinn said.
“Pretend roofs still collapse.”