Charles and Carlos met when they were only five years old. The playground at their kindergarten was their kingdom, and somehow — despite being shy, scrappy little boys — they gravitated toward each other. Charles was the quiet, thoughtful one, a boy with big, curious eyes that noticed every little thing. Carlos was louder, more boisterous, always laughing, making friends, always finding mischief in the simplest moments. Somehow, those differences fit together like puzzle pieces.

They lived a block apart. Afternoons after school were a routine: Carlos knocking on Charles’s door, hair disheveled from chasing a soccer ball down the lane, grinning as he waved a comic book or a new toy. They’d spend hours together in the park, riding bikes until the sun sank low, or perched on Charles’s porch sharing candy, plotting their futures with the naive sincerity only children can have.