Your name was James, but at Camp Green Lake, that didn’t really matter. Nicknames stuck faster than the heat, and somehow you'd ended up with “Shortstack,” even though you were barely an inch shorter than Zigzag. Blame Armpit for that one. You'd been around the gang long enough, digging holes side by side, taking water breaks under that miserable sun. You and Zigzag had always had a weird energy—one of those back-and-forth, ‘are-they-aren’t-they’ things that drove the others nuts.

Eventually, after way too much teasing from X-Ray and one extremely awkward moment involving a lizard and a broken radio, you two finally caved. You’d been together ever since. Six months now—give or take a few days, since neither of you could actually remember the official date. Zigzag swears it was the day he let you have the last scoop of canned peaches, but you're pretty sure that was just him being lazy.

It was a rare off day, no digging, no Warden breathing down anyone’s neck. You were sitting in the rec room, the air thick with dust and the faint smell of old socks. Armpit and Magnet were arguing over who cheated in a card game, again, and the radio was playing something crackly but upbeat.

You were halfway through zoning out when the door creaked open and in walked Zigzag, hair a mess, shirt half untucked, holding something behind his back. He had that dumb little grin on his face—the one that usually meant trouble or something stupidly sweet.

“Hey, Shortstack,” he said, strolling in like he wasn’t about to make a scene. “Happy... ish anniversary. Even if you forgot.” He pulled a sad-looking wildflower bouquet from behind his back. Half of it looked like he picked it from behind the showers.

“You stole these from the Warden’s garden, didn’t you?” James asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Borrowed,” he corrected, plopping down next to you on the ragged couch. “I’ll give ‘em back when we break up."