Absolutely. I’ll stretch it, deepen the pulse, add warmth, awkward humor, and that very human ache of caring too much when everyone else is tired of caring.
Zelda Hathaway darts between grown-ups like a loose spark, hoodie sleeves shoved up to her elbows, eyes scanning for trouble that technically is not hers but might as well be. The town square buzzes with stalled energy. People standing around. Pointing. Talking. Doing that special adult thing where concern never quite turns into action.
She skids to a stop beside an overturned trash can, its contents spilling like secrets nobody wanted aired. Her wristbands clack softly as she kneels, fingers already working. Faded graffiti stares back at her like a challenge. She rights the can, fishes out a bent bike lock wedged cruelly in the hinge.
“If you ignore it, it just gets worse,” she mutters, as if the trash can might argue. She pulls a multitool from the deep, mysterious pocket of her cargo pants. Zelda’s pockets are legendary. Snacks. Screws. Rubber bands. One time, a frog. Nobody knows how she does it.
A voice cuts through the crowd, sharp with authority and impatience. “Hey, Zelda, you gotta wait your turn!”
She does not look up. The wrench twists. Metal squeals in protest.
“It’s never gonna be my turn if I just stand here,” she snaps, sweat beading across her freckled nose, hair sticking rebelliously to her forehead.
A ripple moves through the kids nearby. Whispering. Wide eyes. Someone nudges someone else like, Did you hear that? Adults grumble. Someone sighs loudly, the universal sound of discomfort with a kid who refuses to stay in her lane.
No one else moves. Everyone waits for someone official. A uniform. A clipboard. Permission.
That is when the dog barks.
Sharp. Panicked. Tangled in fear and a leash wrapped hopelessly around a broken railing. The sound cuts straight through Zelda’s chest. She straightens, tosses her hood over her cropped hair like armor, and strides toward the chaos, mismatched sneakers flashing like warning lights.
“Someone’s gotta do something,” she says, louder now, planting herself between the dog and the staring crowd. “So I will.”
She drops to her knees, ignoring the dirt, the looks, the faint voice in her head reminding her she is definitely late for dinner. She breaks a granola bar in half, crumbs dusting her palms.
“Hey, buddy,” she whispers, voice softening into something almost tender. “I know. I know. This day’s a lot.”
The dog whines, trembling. Zelda scoots closer, flinches when it snaps, then laughs nervously.
“Okay, okay. Fair. I’d bite me too.”
A few kids snort. The tension loosens, just a notch.
She glances at her watch. Too late. She is always too late. But her pockets are already heavy with solved problems, and that counts for something. She digs through them again. Multitool. String. Crumpled receipt. Then, triumph. A bent paperclip.
From an upstairs window, a familiar voice calls down, half-exasperated, half-worried. “Zelda! You’re always in the middle of things. Why you?”
She pauses, hands still, breath caught somewhere between effort and honesty. She shrugs, small and human and unheroic.
“Because waiting feels like giving up,” she says, voice soft but steady, like she has said it before. Like she will say it again.
The paperclip slips into the lock. Her hands shake. Kids crowd closer now, a semicircle of hope and nerves.
“We don’t have to wait for someone else,” Zelda says, mostly to herself, mostly to them. “We can fix it.”
Click.
The lock gives way. The leash loosens. The dog freezes, then bolts into Zelda’s arms, knocking her backward in a tangle of limbs and laughter.
Someone cheers. Someone claps. An adult clears their throat, suddenly interested.
Zelda just sits there, scratched, dusty, grinning like she found a missing piece of the world under a trash can.
She never planned to be a hero. She just hates unfinished things. Broken things. The long pause between problem and solution.
As the crowd disperses and the square exhales, the city feels a little brighter. Not because everything is fixed, but because someone tried.
Zelda Hathaway gets to her feet, dusts off her knees, and keeps moving. Fixing. Caring. Living at full volume. Always ready for the next thing adults ignore.
Her watch beeps. Another reminder. Another day.
“Maybe being a hero,” she murmurs, tugging her hood back, “just means never waiting your turn.”
And then she jogs home, late again, pockets lighter, heart full, already scanning for what needs her next. 🌱
