What the Bear Knew

The golden retriever puppy—Barnaby, because my little brother had zero creativity—was currently chewing on my limited edition Vans. I groaned and pried the shoe from his teeth, already scuffed beyond salvation. Babysitting sucked. Babysitting a **dog** that treated footwear like a gourmet meal? Next-level suckage.

Desperation makes you do stupid things. Desperation and being grounded from Instagram. So when I noticed the new neighbor's bathroom window directly across from our backyard, I did what any bored fifteen-year-old would do: I started playing **spy**.

It was harmless at first. Just curiosity. Connor, the neighbor, was seventeen and built like a lacrosse player, with this effortless gravity that pulled everyone toward him at school. I wanted to see what made him tick when nobody was watching. What I saw made zero sense.

The guy had this enormous brown teddy **bear** on his bathroom counter. Not a little decoration—this thing was three feet tall, the kind meant for toddlers, with one eye hanging loose and fur matted from years of love. Connor would stand in front of the mirror, talking to it like it was a person. Sometimes he'd brush its mangy fur with this intensity, like he was trying to fix something broken.

I wanted to laugh. I wanted to screenshot it and absolutely destroy his social capital.

Then came the night his dad screamed something about "disgraceful" and "she'd be ashamed" through their open window. Connor walked into the bathroom, grabbed that bear, and just held it. I watched through the slats of our fence as he slid down the wall, burying his face in its stomach, shoulders shaking in a way that had nothing to do with silence.

I didn't screenshot it. I didn't send it to my group chat.

The next morning, Barnaby wriggled through a gap in the fence and came trotting back with that ragged bear in his mouth, like he'd accomplished something magnificent. I stood frozen, holding the evidence of someone's private heartbreak, suddenly understanding how careful you had to be with the things people carried through their lives.

I wiped mud from the bear's ear, knocked on Connor's door, and handed it over without saying anything stupid. He looked at me—really looked at me—for the first time ever, and something cracked behind his eyes.

"Thanks," he said. "That was... that was my mom's."

"I know," I said, because suddenly I did know—how some things you just have to bear alone until someone catches you with your guard down.

Barnaby chose that moment to pee on his lawn.

Connor laughed. It was real and messy and nothing like the version of himself he performed at school.

"Your dog," he said, "is a disaster."

"Yeah," I admitted. "But he's got good taste."