There was nothing left to do.
Every inch of the house had already been turned into a lava field, a fort, or a speedway. The science kit had been blown to hell, and Dad had broken the left Joy-Con last week in a misguided game of Mario Kart.
Jack wandered outside, looking for his brothers. They’d ditched a half-hearted game of soccer and were now scaling the old oak at the far end of the yard.
When Jack was three, Peter told him he couldn’t play in the tree with them—there was an ogre in it who ate little boys. But Jack was seven now.
Big enough.
He followed them up, gripping the trunk, calling out their names—tightly holding on to both the bark and the secret that he was still terrified of heights.