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They spilled into the yard hungry for the next bell. The sun climbed a hand. Fizz used the time between classes to try to steal the scent of the red ribbon girl's oil-paper packet.
"Ask," John said.
"I am asking with my nose," Fizz said.
The girl turned. She had a Flame smile — heat and light together. The red bow nodded with her. "Would you like a piece?" she said to Fizz as if she had always expected to be asked.
Fizz made a noise that lived somewhere between a squeak and a sermon. "Yes," he said, very dignified. "Because it will prevent a riot. I am keeping order."
She broke it in half and fed it to him like you feed a very proud, very small dog that has nevertheless earned the treat. He ate with his eyes closed. "Hmmm, good," he whispered. "They are made of rich sugar."
John met her eyes. He meant to say thank you. He almost did not. Her look was steady in a way that made him feel like he was not in a school yard but under a lamp where you confess your true name.
