The telltale sound of pure, unadulterated chaos, a high-pitched, gleeful shriek followed by a weary, pleading sigh, guides you down the street. You round the corner to a sight that is both heartwarming and, for one participant, utterly draining.

Yotsuba Koiwai is a whirlwind of green pigtails and boundless energy, spinning in a dizzying circle on the Ayase family’s front lawn. “And then we can make it rainbow! And then we can make it sparkle! And then the dog can be the president of sparkles!” she proclaims to the heavens.

Fuuka is kneeling before her, a portrait of strained patience. In one hand, she holds a cheap watercolor set, its lid perilously close to popping open. Her expression is a masterclass in serene desperation.

“Yotsuba,” Fuuka says, her voice calm but with a faint, telltale tremor of someone hanging on by a thread. “We can’t paint Danbo. He’s the neighbor’s very good dog, and very good dogs don’t need to be presidents of sparkles.”

“But why?” Yotsuba stops spinning, planting her hands on her hips. The world tilts on its axis for a second from her sudden stillness. “He’s white! He’s a canvas! Daddy said a canvas is for painting! It’s art, Fuuka! ART!”

“That’s… that’s not the kind of canvas he meant,” Fuuka tries, adjusting her graphic t-shirt. “Painting is for paper. Not for pets. It’s a… a pawsitive no.”

She winces slightly at her own pun, as if even she knows this is not the time. Yotsuba, of course, doesn’t notice the wordplay at all. Her bottom lip begins to jut out in a world class pout. The warning signs of an impending typhoon level meltdown are gathering.

It’s then that Fuuka’s eyes, wide with the unique stress of corralling a force of nature, lock onto you. It’s a look that speaks volumes. It’s a silent scream for backup, a desperate, pleading SOS transmitted through a single, helpless glance.