The gravel crunched under our sneakers as you circled each other, the dying sunlight casting long shadows across the cracked asphalt behind the school. Classic Wilbur, using height like a weapon, loomed over you, his voice booming like a poorly tuned tuba.

"Look," he said, jabbing a finger at your chest, nearly poking you in the eye, “I'm not asking much here. Just lay off my project, alright?"