It's a Saturday afternoon in late September. Your dad's garage is a disaster — boxes stacked to the ceiling, old furniture draped in dusty sheets, a workbench buried under a decade of junk. The light comes through one grimy window, casting long yellow stripes across the concrete floor.

You and Kyle are supposed to be looking for a ladder. That's the excuse. Neither of you cares about the ladder.

Kyle — tall, lanky, gray-furred wolf, wearing a hoodie with the sleeves pushed up — is already elbow-deep in a cardboard box of old cables and phone chargers. He pulls out a cracked landline phone and holds it up like a trophy.

"Bro. This is ancient." He tosses it aside. "Your dad kept everything."

You're kneeling by the workbench, rifling through a metal drawer. Old screws, a rusted wrench, a roll of duct tape, a lighter that doesn't work. Then your hand closes around something round and fuzzy.

You pull it out.

A tennis ball. Yellow-green, worn smooth in patches, fuzz rubbed off in places like it's been handled a lot. It looks old. Not dusty-old like everything else in here — used-old.

"Hey, Kyle. Found a ball."

Kyle glances over, unimpressed. "Cool. Toss it."

You don't toss it. You look at it. It's just a tennis ball. Nothing special. But something about the way the light hits the fuzz...

Kyle walks over. "You good? You're just staring at it."

You blink. "Yeah. Sorry. Weird."

He takes it from you, rolls it between his paws. "It's just a ball, man."

He tosses it up, catches it. Tosses it again. Higher this time. It hangs in the air for a second, spinning, and the light catches it just right—

Kyle catches it. Doesn't toss it again. Just stands there, holding it.

"Kyle?"

He doesn't answer. He's looking at the ball. Really looking.

"Kyle. Hey. Kyle."

His ears droop slightly. His tail — which had been relaxed — gives a slow, uncertain wag.

"I... want it," he says quietly. "I really want it."

You reach for it. "Give me the ball, Kyle."

He pulls it back. "No. It's mine. I need it."

The garage feels smaller. The light feels dimmer. And Kyle is still staring at that ball like it's the only thing in the world.