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I turned off my screen, but the question stayed. The ball smacked into my palm harder than I expected, and I laughed as eight-year-old Marcus threw his arms up like he’d just won the World Series.

“That was solid,” I said, shaking out my hand dramatically.

“You said throw it hard,” he shot back, already backing up like he was ready for another round.

“I said throw it,” I corrected, pointing at him. “That was you trying to take me out.”

He grinned, completely unrepentant. “You caught it.”

“Barely.” I lobbed it back, softer this time, and he caught it against his chest with a small grunt. The late-afternoon sun stretched long across the park, warm but soft, the kind that made it easy to lose track of time.

“Alright,” I said, clapping once. “You’ve got five more minutes before you’re back inside finishing math.”

He groaned like I had personally betrayed him. “I hate fractions.”

“You’ll get it,” I said. I smiled and tossed the ball again. We kept going for a few more throws, the rhythm easy, until I tucked the ball under my arm and nodded toward the building.

“Inside.” I messed up his hair, and he immediately slapped a hand over it.

“Hey! I was trying to look cool,” Marcus complained.

“You were never going to pull that off,” I said.

He grinned. “Good thing I look better next to you.”

Marcus muttered something about “evil fractions” as the door closed behind him and he disappeared into the hum of voices. I followed. The Hope Center hummed around me—quiet conversations, pencils scratching, kids groaning about completing homework.

I took a few steps in, scanning out of habit, but halted when I got to her. Cali stood just inside the doorway, her hand wrapped around the strap of her bag like she hadn’t fully decided to stay. She was still wearing her scrubs, her hair pulled back but loosening at the edges from a long day. She looked tired. One hand drummed against her thigh. Everything else about her looked ready to run. Something in me pulled taut. Every instinct told me to close the distance between us. I stayed where I was. She’d asked for space. For once, I was going to give it to her. I walked over slowly, leaving enough distance between us that she didn’t have to step back.

“Hey,” I said.

Her head lifted, eyes finding mine. Surprise crossed her face, then caution replaced it.

“Hey,” she replied. Anxiety returned in the restless movement of her hands.

“What brings you here?” I asked.

Her fingers adjusted on her bag strap. “I heard this place needs volunteers.”

I nodded. “Yeah. It does.”

“I don’t have a lot of time,” she said. “But I could do an hour or two a week. Help with homework or something.” She looked around uncertainly.

“That’d be great,” I said. “They’re always looking for people.”

The word slipped out before I could stop it. They. Not we. Her gaze swept across the room. Kids bent over worksheets. Someone reading quietly in the corner. A volunteer crouched beside a chair, explaining something with the sunny patience only a retired teacher could muster.

“It’s . . . really nice,” she said.

I tracked her gaze. “Yeah.”

She shifted her weight. “Is there someone I should talk to?”

“Yeah, you can talk to Sawyer,” I said, gesturing toward her office. Her attention snapped back to me, concern slipping through before she could hide it.

“She’s here?” she asked, straightening her scrub top.

“Yeah.”