Tiny Yogurt eats alone. It’s not a big deal, it’s just that lunch is a tricky thing, lunch is difficult, and her former lunch circle is unavailable so she takes her half sandwich and twelve doritos and namesake cup of fruit-on-the-bottom to the hall by the library and sits, taking measured, careful bites.

She takes comfort in it, this space of her own, silent and answerable to no one. Until the day this kid carrying a stack of books he can’t see over trips on her.

“Watch it,” Tiny Yogurt snaps, startling herself.

“Sorry!” says Giant Nut Head.