Who the hell is this chick? He thought to himself with increased concern. It almost seemed as if she telepathically heard his question, thereafter getting up and leaving. The only sound left was the sound of crows and kicking-up of dust across the field.

With mud-crusted shoe-laces he stood up, wanting to investigate. The holes in his shoes filled with dirt when he dragged his feet. That lunchbox was still there. He inched closer and closer to his long overdue meal and was certainly better than leftover Dairy Queen. 

The sun beamed and flies buzzed around incessantly. It was strangely arid for the time of day. Dalton slouched over digging through her food like a hyena in the heat. A tinge of disappointment struck his face when he found there was only a sandwich with a bite and a half eaten apple. Not bad. Not good.

“You’re picky for a dog," the girl said with a frown on her face.

Reflexively, he went for a punch, only finding himself curled up on the ground aching in place. He groaned, staring at his newfoundlunch from the ground. The sun glared extra bright, drying his lips and mind.  Did I just get hit by a girl?

He looked up in absolute disbelief and confusion. This meek girl put him on the ground like that without a second thought. He stared intently at her hello-kitty hairpin. Her long black hair flowed like a creek.

She bolted without saying so much as a word. 

He bolted right in her footstep leaving a dust-devil behind him and a sandwich on the ground. The school bell in the distance rang with familiarity and anxiety.