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“We weren’t targeting them.”

“You chose their property because they’re bears.”

“It’s a bear joke.”

“That makes it targeted.”

Aaron kicked the wheel of his cart. “They don’t like us anyway.”

“Why would they?” His head lifted. I stepped closer. “You’ve spent months harassing their family, then used their response as proof that they deserve more.”

“We never hurt anyone.”

“You don’t know that.”

“It’s only pranks.”

I pointed to the cart. “This could cause chemical burns.”

“We would set it off ourselves.”

“Near their house. Where children live.”

The boys went quiet.

I looked at each of them. “Think beyond the moment you find amusing. Think about who has to deal with the mess, the fear, the damage, and the belief that you chose to harass them because of what they are.”

The words landed differently than I expected. I thought of Sloane. Of fear. Of consequences. Of someone making decisions for others because facing the truth seemed harder.

The comparison didn’t excuse her. It made me tired to think about it.

Aaron stared at the bottles. “We didn’t think about the little kids.”

I sighed. “Return the supplies.”

They moved reluctantly.

“Then tomorrow, you will visit the Fletchers with your parents and explain what you planned.”

Aaron looked horrified. “We didn’t do it, though!”

“You intended to.”

“They’ll hate us.”

“They may.”

“That’s not fair.”

I leveled him with a look. His face changed as he heard himself.

“No,” I said. “It may not be. Consequences often feel unfair when you only measure them against what you wanted.”

The boys returned the items without another argument.

I drove from the store to Grandma Ruth’s house. She had summoned me with a text message consisting of seven words.

Grandma Ruth: COME OVER. I MADE TOO MUCH SOUP.