When the slide falls, Shelley and her troops egress (never say retreat) back to the jungle gym and hole up with what’s left of their balloons. It’s hell out there. The sandbox is all mud, and the out-of-bounds hill is covered with soaked kids.
“Whatta we do, sir?” says Pincton.
Over the swingy bridge comes the chanting of the hordes: Shelley’s smelly, Shelley’s smelly.
“Don’t listen to ’em, sir. We’re with you, doesn’t matter if -”
“Stop right there soldier.”
She hefts a balloon in her hand, feels it wobble. This one, she thinks, is for you, Cameron Sneed.