Chapter 2: Cloud Conversations

  The next morning, Liam burst into the park like a tornado with a mission. His backpack bulged with “supplies”: a grano bar (“sky fuel”), a magnifying gss (“cloud inspector”), and a fistful of tortil chips (“wind tacos”). The kite, tucked under his arm, vibrated with impatience.

  “ABOUT TIME, CAPTAIN! I’VE BEEN BORED SINCE TUESDAY!”

  “It’s Wednesday,” Liam corrected, unspooling the string.

  “EXACTLY. AGES.”

  The kite shot upward before Liam could even run, yanking him into a wobbly jog.

  “PSST–SEE THAT CLOUD?” The kite nodded at a puffy cumulus. “HER NAME’S MARTHA. SHE’S A GOSSIP.”

  “Clouds have names?”

  “DUH. MARTHA’S ALWAYS CRYING. THAT’S WHY IT RAINED TUNA CASSEROLE LAST WEEK.”

  Liam snorted. “Rain’s not casserole.”

  “TELL THAT TO MY LEFTWING. STILL SMELLS LIKE MAYONNAISE.”

  They spent hours like that–chasing jet trails (“LOSERS! WE’RE FASTER!”), dodging seagulls (“GARBAGE PIRATES!”), and mapping “cloud countries” only the kite could see. Liam’s cheeks hurt from ughing.

  ***

  That night, Dad found Liam doodling a “sky map” at the kitchen table, tortil crumbs littering the paper.

  “Kite still talking?” Dad asked, scooping Liam onto his p.

  “He says the moon’s made of cheese dust,” Liam whispered, eyes wide.

  Dad chuckled. “Sounds like a cheesy fel.”

  “No, listen–” Liam gripped Dad’s shirt. “He’s real. He knows things! Like… like how you hid my birthday cake in the dryer!”

  Dad froze. “That was a guess.”

  “He said you dropped the spatu and yelled a bad word!”

  “Liam–”

  “It was ‘Fudgecicles!’”

  Dad’s eyebrows shot up. “Okay, that’s… creative.”

  ***

  By Saturday, the kite’s voice grew crackly, like a walkie-talkie losing batteries.

  “CAPTAIN. WE NEED TO TALK.” It sagged mid-flight, dragging its tail through mud.

  “Did you eat bad wind tacos?” Liam asked, rewinding the string.

  “I’M RUNNING OUT OF SKY-TIME,” it muttered. “ONCE SUMMER ENDS, THE WIND FIRES ME. GOTTA FIND THE TREASURE BEFORE THEN.”

  “What treasure?!”

  “THE WIND’S TREASURE. IT’S WHY I’M HERE. BUT…” The kite hesitated. “IT’S HIDDEN IN A STORM CLOUD. DANGEROUS. SCARY. PROBABLY HAS… THUNDER-SHARKS.”

  Liam gasped. “Sharks?!”

  “METAPHORICAL ONES. STILL. YOU IN?”

  Liam gnced at Dad, now napping under a tree. “What’s the treasure?”

  The kite’s googly eyes gleamed. “EVERYTHING. SPARKLES. SECRETS. THE REASON DADS STOP BELIEVING IN MAGIC.”

  “But Dad does believe! Sort of…”

  “THEN PROVE IT.” The kite surged upward, suddenly fierce. “TREASURE HUNT TOMORROW. BRING BRAVERY… AND EXTRA STRING.”

  ***

  As they walked home, Liam swung the kite’s handle like a pendulum. “What if the thunder-sharks bite us?”

  “THEN WE’LL BITE BACK,” the kite said. “I’VE GOT A SECRET WEAPON.”

  “What?!”

  “MY BREATH IS REALLY STINKY.”

  Liam giggled, but his stomach fizzed with nerves. Above them, the sky deepened to bruised purple–a storm brewing where marshmallow clouds once floated.

  “DON’T WORRY, CAPTAIN,” the kite whispered, softer now. “WINDS CHANGE. MAGIC… STICKS AROUND.”