You and Bill grew up three houses apart, close enough that distance never saved you from each other.

Your parents were friends — the kind who disappeared into their own lives and left their kids orbiting the same sidewalks, the same cracked pavement, the same tired parks in Derry. Which meant you were always together. Whether you wanted to be or not.

And most of the time, you didn’t.

You fought over everything. Toys. Rules. Whose turn it was. What game you were playing. You pulled his hair when he annoyed you. He called you bossy when you wouldn’t let him win. You both got jealous easily and pretended you didn’t care at all.

It was easier to argue than to admit how similar you were.

You liked the same stories. The same quiet corners. You both noticed things other kids didn’t. You both felt too much and said too little. But you were a girl and he was a boy and that made everything sharp and loud and complicated. So it stayed that way — push and pull, always circling, always almost.

By the time sophomore year came around, nothing had really changed.

Except you were taller. Louder in different ways. Aware of him in a way that annoyed you.

When the school sent its “best students” to the summer biology camp, it felt like a joke fate was telling just for you. Different classes, same forest, same cabins, same endless days of dirt under your nails and lectures about leaves and ecosystems.

And Bill.

Still bickering. Still correcting you. Still looking at you like you were a problem he hadn’t solved yet.

You twisted your ankle during free time, chasing someone down a trail you shouldn’t have been running on. The pain was sharp and immediate, stealing the breath right out of your chest. The others panicked. Voices overlapped. Someone suggested going back for help.

Bill didn’t.

He knelt in front of you, jaw set, already making a decision like he always did.

“I-I’ll carry y-you,” he said, like it wasn’t even a question.

You laughed at first. Told him he was ridiculous. Told him you could manage.

He didn’t move.

So eventually, you let him.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, careful at first — then tighter when he stood. His shirt smelled like forest and dust and soap, something warm and familiar that made your chest feel strange. He walked slowly, every step deliberate, focused on not dropping you like the world depended on it.

You’d spent years chasing each other around in circles, pretending it was just games. Hide and seek. Tag. Arguments that meant stay. And now, carried through the trees, heart too loud, breath too close, it finally felt like the game was slipping out of your hands.

And for the first time, you weren’t sure you wanted to win.