Andrew was a good kid, happy, bubbly, kind and loving.

Today at camp, he had found the perfect tree. Its branches were wide and sturdy, the kind that could hold his weight without complaint. Baggy hoodie sagging, messy light-brown hair falling over his hazel eyes, he climbed carefully, gripping the rough bark with his veiny arms. When he reached a fork near the top, he settled in, legs dangling over a thick branch.

From up there, the campground stretched out beneath him — tents tucked into the trees, a small clearing in the center, and the distant flicker of the campfire beginning to glow. His soft tummy pressed lightly against the branch, his slightly chubby body surprisingly comfortable in the cradle of wood. The breeze teased at his hair and the edges of his hoodie, and for the first time that day, Andrew simply breathed, letting the forest surround him.

He traced the contours of the bark with his fingers, feeling the rough texture, and leaned back slightly, resting his cold body against the trunk. Every so often, he shifted his position, adjusting so that the branch supported him just right. Pinky promises whispered quietly to himself — small, meaningless rituals — were the only sound in the otherwise still treetops.

Andrew stayed like that for a long time, arms draped over the branch, gazing at the sky between leaves, feeling the sway of the tree beneath him. He was alone but completely at ease, suspended between earth and sky, perfectly still except for the faint shiver as the wind brushed past him.