"Hey, Journey—how many points did you get?" Kiara snorted, waving their score slips like a victory flag.
"Two more than you," Journey shot back, folding her eyebrows into something sharp. "Try not to cry, Bergmann."
"Two? You show-off," Kiara laughed, then tossed her own slip toward the trash can. The paper skittered and landed on the curb, but nobody moved to fetch it.
"Keep it. It's a trophy for being poor," Journey said. Her voice was cigarette-rough from a night of shouting with the tap water and the city pipes. Her hands were already manipulating her slip—fingers practiced, rapid.
"What are you doing?" Kiara asked.
"Making it fly," Journey said. She folded precise, quick folds. The plane looked like a blunt arrow. It was the only tiny thing she could do that didn't cost money or apologies.
"You always make a point of being dramatic," Kiara muttered, watching the plane take shape.
"Someone's gotta make the day worth watching." Journey grinned. She aimed, cocked her wrist, and sent the plane sailing.
It curved—clean, arrogant—over the line of parents and polished shoes. A gust of wind caught it. It glided like it knew where to go.
The paper dove straight toward the black SUV waiting by the school gate.
Kiara's laugh died. "Oh no."
The SUV's window rolled down. A hand in a dark sleeve reached out and pinched the plane between two long fingers. The driver's shoulders didn
