Late summer ripened toward harvest, and Greystone's fields hummed with work. Wagons creaked along the dirt lanes, laden with sheaves of grain or barrels of apples. Children too young for heavy labor found their own tasks — carrying water, scaring crows, or, more often, slipping away when no one looked too closely.
Shithead and his friends had claimed the willow again as their fortress. Tomas had brought a crust of bread, Mira a pouch of berries, Alan a carved stick he swore was a sword, and Lysa her soft voice, humming as she wove flowers into a chain. Shithead lay on the grass, staring at the sky, ribbon still tied around his wrist.
The peace broke with a sharp crack.
They sat up in unison. From the lane beyond the trees came the sound of splintering wood and a horse's panicked whinny. The children scrambled to the ridge overlooking the path.
A cart had overturned, one wheel shattered, barrels spilled into the ditch. Beside it, a pair of older boys struggled — Joran and Peth, sons of a farmer known for his quick temper. Both were fifteen, nearly men, and both already broad in the shoulders.
"Idiot!" Joran shouted, shoving his brother. "You pulled it wrong!"
"You pushed me!" Peth snapped back.
The horse stamped nervously, reins tangled, as the boys argued.
"Should we help?" Lysa whispered.
Alan frowned. "They won't want help from us."
Mira's eyes flicked to Shithead. "From him, you mean."
Shithead's jaw tightened. He looked at the cart — the barrels could roll and crush the horse if it spooked more. The wood of the wheel was split jagged; it would take strength to pull the cart free. Strength he had.
"We're helping," he said, already moving.
The others followed.
Joran scowled when he saw them approach. "Go back to your games. We don't need—" His gaze landed on Shithead, and the sneer deepened. "Orc blood won't fix a wheel."
Shithead didn't answer. He went straight to the cart, braced his shoulder against the frame, and heaved. Muscles bunched, teeth clenched, the wood groaned — and slowly, the cart shifted upright. The barrels rolled back into place with dull thuds.
The horse stilled, breathing hard but calmer.
Maren's words echoed in Shithead's head: Your worth isn't in their mouths. It's in your hands.
Alan and Mira darted to gather spilled tools, Tomas hauled a barrel upright with a grunt, Lysa soothed the horse with gentle strokes. Together, they brought the scene to order.
But Joran wasn't grateful. He stalked forward, face twisted. "Think that makes you one of us? Think a freak can just—"
"Stop," Peth cut in sharply, surprising them all. He was quieter than his brother, often overlooked, but now his eyes burned. "He just saved our cart. Shut your mouth."
Joran faltered, then spat into the dirt. "Fine. But don't expect thanks." He stomped off down the road, muttering.
Peth lingered, meeting Shithead's eyes. "I… appreciate it." Then he followed.
The friends stood in silence for a moment, the sound of cicadas filling the air.
Tomas broke it first. "Well. That was almost worse than the quarry."
Mira grinned crookedly. "But we handled it."
Alan clapped Shithead's back. "You handled it."
Shithead shook his head. "We all did."
Lysa slipped the flower chain over his wrist, twining it with the ribbon. "Two reminders," she said softly. "One of strength. One of belonging."
They walked back to the willow together, dust on their boots, sweat on their brows, but lighter in their hearts. The pact they had made in secret felt stronger now, tested not by a game but by the world itself.
Yet as they left the lane, Shithead glanced once more at the splintered wood of the cart wheel, the crack jagged like a wound. He knew there would always be breaks not so easily mended.