You’re moving too fast. Kids always do.

The bathroom door swings shut behind you, the echo still bouncing when you take off toward the dining room. The lights out there are warmer. Louder. Safe. Your shoes slap the tile like you’re racing something invisible.

You don’t see the wires.

You don’t see the half-open gift box either — cardboard mouth gaping, ribbon spilled like intestines across the floor.

Your foot catches. The world tilts. Then the floor rises up and meets you hard.

It doesn’t hurt that bad. Not really. But the shock hits first. That hot, tight feeling in your chest. The kind where your eyes burn before you even decide to cry. Your hands sting. Your knees throb. You sit there, stunned, breath shaking, trying to be brave and failing quietly.

The hallway feels longer now.

Behind you, down the side corridor, the night guard’s room sits dark and empty. The door is cracked open, just enough to look like it’s watching. You don’t look at it for long.

Then you feel it.

Not footsteps. Presence.

Heavy. Tall. Still.

You lift your head.

Bonnie is standing at the end of the hallway.

He doesn’t rush. He never does. His shadow stretches toward you, long and crooked under the fluorescent lights. His ears nearly brush the ceiling. For a second, your heart jumps — because he’s big, and he’s quiet, and you’re small on the floor.

Then he tilts his head.

Just a little.

“That looked like it hurt,” he says, voice low and gentle, like he’s careful not to scare the air itself.

You sniff. Your lip wobbles. You try to nod but it comes out messy.

Bonnie steps closer, slow and deliberate, making sure you see every movement. He crouches down so he’s not towering anymore. One big hand rests on the floor instead of on you, like he’s asking permission without words.