I’m not sure why I remember this day we played as children. Perhaps it was the timing, but it stands out sharply in my memory.
When Hamlet stopped spinning me, I held my arms out to steady myself. Thick fabric covered my eyes so thoroughly that I couldn’t tell the direction of the setting sun.
“Laertes!” he called out.
I stumbled in Hamlet’s direction, high-stepping to avoid hillocks of grass. The sound had come from just there. I swiped, hit air, and tilted, almost falling. Ralph and Gerrit—two of Hamlet’s friends—laughed to my left. I whirled to meet them.
One of them let out a scream as he dodged. I was close, then.
Heedless of danger, I scrambled forward, meeting no one.
“Laertes can’t tag us,” I heard Hamlet say. “He has no more brains than my elbow.”
Half-laughing, half-hurt,
