When I was in the lower grades of elementary school, our after-school playground was almost exclusively the schoolyard. Once classes ended, we would stay right there on the grounds, playing soccer, dodgeball, cops and robbers, or kickball. The group of kids playing changed from day to day; often there were older kids or someone’s younger brother, so I frequently had no idea who half of them were.

Even so, there were regulars who joined in every time, and he was one of them. Apparently his house was near the school, so instead of going home when classes ended, he’d sit on the schoolyard swings and watch us. He was thin with knobby limbs and had a gloomy aura, but back then, as long as someone could play, we didn't care who they were, so it became routine to call him over. When we invited him to join, he’d laugh with a sound like a dry cough, which left a strong impression on me.

Staying out in the schoolyard until the very end without heading home early, he was waiting for his mother to pick him up every day. His mother, who came to get him in some kind of uniform—maybe off a part-time shift—would express her gratitude while asking for each of our names, though occasionally she’d say something strange.

“Please don't feed him.”

According to what he told us, his parents were strictly training a pet they kept at home. They were apparently obsessed with managing its diet. Curious at the mention of a pet, we asked if we could go see it, but he just shook his head in silence. After being turned down time and again, we gradually lost interest in the pet, and soon enough, nobody brought it up anymore.

One day, one of our playmates brought a huge stash of cheap candy. Overjoyed by this rare treat, we thanked our generous friend and divided the snacks among everyone present. That kid was there too, and he seemed deeply moved by the taste of the candy. We made fun of him, asking if he'd never had junk food before, but seeing how truly happy he looked made us glad we’d shared it with him. After we finished eating, everyone naturally parted ways for the day.

That night, his mother came to my house. She looked furious. My parents dealt with her at the front door, but they couldn't seem to make sense of what she was talking about, and I could hear their raised voices from the living room. My parents hesitated to involve me, but curious about what was going on, I walked out to the entryway. The moment his mother saw me, the crease between her brows deepened even further, and she thrust something toward me.

It was the wrapper from the candy we had eaten earlier that day.

Thrusting it in my face, she let out a hysterical, rage-filled voice. It almost sounded like a cry.

“I told you not to feed him.”

From that day on, I never saw him in the schoolyard after class again. We were in different grades and classes, so I didn't even know if he was still coming to school. Apparently, she had visited the other kids' houses that same night as well. She was supposedly hysterical the entire time, to the point where some parents, unable to figure out what was happening, even called the police. And ever since that day, no one ever brought snacks after school again.