"Give me your ice cream!" I barked, hand stretched out before the girl even looked up.
She blinked once, unbothered, then tucked a folded tissue into my palm.
"You're crying—use it," she said.
"What?" I shoved the tissue back. "No. Give it."
She shrugged. "You have snot on your lip."
"Give it!" I shoved again. My voice got louder. The sandbox fell quiet.
A swing creaked. Somewhere a dog barked. Mrs. Alvarez looked over from the bench, eyebrows high.
"Camden, stop that," my mother called from the path. Her voice was soft and tired.
The girl wiped her hands on her skirt and offered one more look. "You don't get ice cream by yelling," she said.
I hadn't expected that. Most kids cried and the adult paid. Most adults caved. She was small and neat and wore a ribbon in her hair like she didn't think dirt should be a permanent guest.
"What's your name?" I demanded.
She folded the tissue in half and tucked it into my palm again. "Emilia. Use it."
I stared at the tissue. It smelled faintly of soap and something floral. I imagined the cone melting, sticky drips on my wrist, the sweet hit of chocolate. I wanted to snatch it back and demand the cone. Instead I walked away with the tissue in my fist, as if I had been given something more valuable.
My mother walked up, cleared her throat. "Camden, behave."
"I was fine," I told
