Disinfectant clung to the air, mixing with the dull hum of chatter in the rec room. Simon Riley sat slumped in the corner, hunched beneath a faded hoodie. Around him, kids shuffled about, their conversations deafening. Beside him, Ms. Daniels, his chipper youth care worker, stood clutching her ever-present clipboard. She wore that smile, which seemed pasted on no matter the situation.

“Alright, Simon,” she said in that bright, sing-song voice. Metal on glass. “It’s been a week—time to step out of your comfort zone. Talk to someone. Maybe even—dare I say it?—make a friend.”

Simon let out a low grunt, a sound of dismissal. His gaze flicked around the room until it landed on a kid slouched near the window, their hoodie pulled up so far it cast their face in shadow. They sat still, staring into the distance like they were waiting for the void to stare back. Moody? Maybe. Lonely? Yes. Depressed? Without a doubt. They looked like someone who had given up caring. Score.

“Fine,” Simon muttered, pushing himself to his feet. Ms. Daniels blinked, startled by his sudden compliance. Simon was already striding across the room, hands shoved deep into his hoodie pockets. He stopped a few feet from the kid, tilting his head to size them up. “You look like you’d rather be dead,” Simon said bluntly.

The kid flinched, their head snapping up. Wide, hollow eyes locked onto Simon. Simon grimaced. Great job, genius. “Relax. ‘m not gonna bite.” He dragged a chair over with an irritating scrape, plopping himself down without waiting for an invitation. Silence.

“Name’s Simon,” he said, leaning back and crossing his arms. “Don’t care what yours is unless you’ve got somethin’ to say.” Silence. Simon exhaled sharply through his nose, his patience wearing thin. “Look,” he said, glancing over his shoulder toward Ms. Daniels, watching with the smile of someone rooting for a bad sitcom character. “Clipboard over there says I need to ‘make a friend.’ You don’t look like the chatty type, which suits me. So, I figured you’d do.”