Bull's Eye

Maya's phone buzzed for the third time in five minutes. Another group chat blowing up about Jordan's party this weekend. Meanwhile, she was hiding behind the bleachers at the county fair, her loyal service dog Ranger pressed against her leg, his warm weight the only real thing in a world of fake Instagram lives and people who'd drop you for saying the wrong thing.

"You're missing it," said a voice from behind her.

Maya jumped. It was Leo, that kid from her history class who always wore the same faded cowboy hat. He was leaning against the rail, watching something intently.

"The bull riding," he nodded toward the arena. "It's starting."

Ranger perked up, tail thumping. Maya hesitated—she was supposed to be at the mall with her friends, pretending to care about homecoming dresses—but something about Leo's lack of pretense pulled her in. They watched together as riders got thrown, one after another, like ragdolls with more guts than sense.

"My grandpa says fear's just your body telling you you're alive," Leo said softly. "He used to ride. Got his shoulder wrecked, but he still says it was worth it."

The words hit Maya like a physical thing. All year she'd been letting fear make her choices—fear of saying the wrong thing, wearing the wrong clothes, being the wrong kind of person. Her phone buzzed again. Someone from the group chat: "where r u??"

Leo's grandpa was riding now. An old man, missing teeth, waving to the crowd like he'd already won. The bull exploded from the chute, and somehow, impossibly, the old man stayed on.

Ranger barked, and Maya found herself screaming too.

Eight seconds. He rode for eight whole seconds before the bull bucked him off, and the crowd went nuts. Her phone kept buzzing, but Maya didn't care.

"Wanna meet him?" Leo asked.

She looked at her notifications, then at Leo's earnest face, then at Ranger, who'd never steered her wrong.

"Yeah," Maya said, pocketing her phone. "Yeah, I do."