Annabeth Saint is eight years old. The garden after dark was forbidden, but Mommy and Daddy are fighting again. As she walks toward the stone bench, she sees fireflies flitting among the moonlit plum blossoms.
She stops and stares.
A boy squats next to the tree. Shirt torn. Knuckles bloody.
"Go away," he snarls.
"This is my garden," she says. "Why should I leave?"
"You're a brat." He moves as if to get up then hisses in pain. He collapses against the tree.
"Who hurt you?"
The boy laughs bitterly. "Who hasn't?"
Annabeth crouches down. She digs into her pocket and pulls out a wrapped candy. "Here. It's lychee-flavored. That's my favorite."
He looks at the candy, and then at her. "Sweets are for children."
"Sweets are for everyone," she says, unwrapping the treat. She presses it against his lips until he opens his mouth and accepts the candy.
