It was one of those bright, salt-stung afternoons where the sky seemed fake—so blue it could’ve been painted—and the air smelled like fried grease, old sea water, and cotton candy. The boardwalk was packed with people, everything vibrating with motion and noise: roller coasters clacking on their tracks, bells ringing from game booths, seagulls shrieking above crowds of sunscreen-shiny tourists.

Somewhere in the blur of it all, two boys were having the time of their lives.

“Look, look,” Boris shouted over the music blasting from a nearby ride. He was practically doubled over with laughter, pointing at a mascot dressed like a walking slice of pizza doing the worm on the splintered planks of the boardwalk. “Is fucking… pizza man doing disco-dance! Hah!”

Theo stood beside him, chewing on a stolen funnel cake and trying not to grin, powdered sugar all over his mouth. “That’s breakdancing, not disco.”

“Whatever,” Boris said with a wave of his hand, still cackling. “American pizza man has moves. Is more flexible than me when I do yoga drunk.”

“You’ve never done yoga in your life,” Theo said flatly.

Boris shrugged, eyes gleaming. “You don’t know everything I do, Malchik.”

They were a ridiculous sight, the two of them—barefoot, sunburned, messy-haired. Theo was in a worn hoodie two sizes too big for him, sleeves hanging past his wrists. Boris wore a grimy tank top with faded lettering in Czech or maybe Polish—who knew where he’d picked it up. His accent twisted every sentence into something lazy and musical, vowels dragged out and consonants dropped like they were too heavy to carry.

They didn’t fit in here, and everyone could tell.

That was sort of the point.

A group of middle schoolers on a field trip passed them, led by a woman with a whistle and a clipboard. All the kids wore matching neon shirts that said “Future Leaders!” across the front, and they walked like ducks in a line, half of them bored, the other half wide-eyed at the lights and sounds.

One of them pointed at Boris. “Are they actors or something?”

“No,” someone whispered. “They look like runaways.”

That wasn’t wrong.

They didn’t look like normal tourists. They were too thin, too twitchy. Theo had bruises like fingerprints around one wrist, and Boris’s knuckles were scabbed over like he’d punched a wall—or maybe a person. Their clothes were rumpled, their hair unbrushed, and they moved with the kind of slippery confidence you only earned from living on the run.

But the laughing—that’s what really drew attention.

Because boys who laugh like that aren’t supposed to look like that.

“Okay,” Boris said suddenly, grabbing Theo by the sleeve. “Is time. You want Slushie, yes?”

Theo blinked. “You don’t have any money.”

Boris smirked, his eyes glassy and golden in the sun. “Not yet.”

And just like that, the game began again.

It was easy. It always was. Theo would lean against the edge of a kiosk, all slouched shoulders and casual glances, pretending to read the menu while the dad in cargo shorts beside him pulled out his wallet. Boris would sweep past behind them, one hand slipping expertly into the man’s pocket. Then they’d disappear into the crowd before anyone noticed.

It wasn’t always money. Sometimes it was a bag of chips. Sometimes it was a still-steaming corn dog left abandoned on a table. Boris once stole an entire unopened bag of caramel popcorn from a stroller cup holder while pretending to tie his shoe.

Back near the arcade entrance, a chaperone leaned over and whispered to another teacher, “Are you seeing this?”

“The tall one just took that guy’s change,” the other one whispered back. “Jesus. Should we call someone?”

“They’re not hurting anyone,” the first teacher said, eyes narrowed. “I think they’re just hungry.”