"So what’s in there?" I asked, nodding at it.

"Some snacks. Buses only come once an hour here, so we might as well kill time…" The boy rummaged in his backpack and pulled out sandwiches. "With these, for example."

I took one from him and bit off a sizable chunk. Only then did I realize how hungry I'd been as the flavors hit me—thin slices of meat, fresh tomatoes, and crisp lettuce with what tasted like cheese sauce, all neatly stacked between two soft bread slices.

"Chicken. Just how I like it."

"Thought so," the kid nodded, taking a massive bite of his own.

His mouth was so full he could barely chew, cheeks bulging comically. I laughed and handed him a napkin sticking out from the backpack's side pocket.

"You eat like a wild animal, kid. Slow down before you choke."

"I bite exactly as much as I can handle," he mumbled through the food, wiping sauce from his chin with the napkin.

"I'll take your word for it."

Turns out waiting with this little pest is way less boring.

"What's your name, kid?" I asked, realizing I'd never bothered to find out earlier.

"Karl," he answered matter-of-factly, still chewing like a starved raccoon.

"Seriously?" I snorted.

"Well, if you really were a zombie, I'd definitely be Karl," he burst out laughing—then immediately started coughing.

"There we go! Told you you'd choke!" I scolded, thumping the wheezing brat on the back.

When the kid finally stopped making those disgusting choking sounds, he sighed and lightly punched me in the chest. I gave him a suspicious look, checking if he'd wiped his slobbery hand on me after coughing.

Well, can you blame me?

"My name's Oscar," the brat finally introduced himself.

"Then I'll call you Ozzy—like an itch in my crotch," I nodded.

"Hey!" he yelped and punched me again, this time harder, right in the shoulder. "Not funny."

"I think it's hilarious," I grinned, then pointed at his feet. "Hey, do you always wear those rubber boots?"

"Mostly when I go out," he said, finishing the last of his sandwich.

"Aren't you hot in them?"

"Nope. Why?"

"Just saying, kids your age usually prefer something more comfortable. Sneakers, for example."

"Since when are sneakers 'comfortable'?" Oscar scoffed. "Your feet sweat even faster in those. But in my boots? No puddle stands a chance. Watch!"

He ran over to a small stagnant puddle by the roadside and jumped into it with full force. Water splashed everywhere—some of it splattering onto the road, where it immediately began evaporating in the heat, the rest soaking into his brown overalls. The kid just shrugged, as if that had been the plan all along.

"Yeah, yeah," I rolled my eyes. "Point taken."

I glanced around again and noticed a crow. It was flying frantically toward us before landing on the road, one wing held awkwardly close to its body.

Stepping to the edge of the highway, I stood next to the kid to get a better look.

"Poor thing," he murmured. "Must’ve hurt itself mid-flight, or maybe some jerks took a shot at it."

"People are weak and stupid," I said bitterly. "When they can’t be better versions of themselves, all they can do is hurt others—especially those weaker than them."

"Flaws get mistaken for weakness too," the kid shrugged. "When a crow’s wing is hurt, it leaves the flock. Flies alone awkwardly so it doesn’t show vulnerability."

"Hard to live when you’re not like everyone else. When you’re… broken," I said, rubbing the scar running along my wrist.

"Everyone’s got their own idea of what’s broken," Oscar replied. "What happened to your arm?"

"When I was around your age, I played basketball," I said, still watching the crow, its beady blue eyes glinting as if listening. "I was good at it—team player, coach’s favorite. Naturally, not everyone liked that. One day after practice, walking home along a road like this, three guys from the team caught up to me. We fought, and in the scuffle, one of them pulled out a pocketknife. Sliced right through the muscle here."