The doctors said I’d never really grow up — that my mind would stay like a child’s. But I knew my husband Joshua was the best person in the whole world. He’d ruffle my hair, call me his “silly girl,” and help me glue my crooked art projects. Then he said he had to be a doctor far, far away — in a war zone. He promised to video call on my birthday. I waited and waited. Then a man in uniform gave me Joshua’s wet phone. “There was fighting… He’s a star now.” After he became a star, everyone called me a hero’s wife. Every day I drew him a picture and “mailed” it with his favorite soda to the stars. Until one day I saw him. He was in the bakery across the street, feeding the biggest strawberry from my cake to my best friend. He didn’t see me watching through the glass. He didn’t know that in a simple world, the rules are simple too: A bad kid who steals strawberries… must be locked away. 1 I was standing in front of the community mail lockers, clutching the drawing I’d made for Joshua. It was a picture of a big, sparkling star, holding a bottle of his favorite orange soda. The mailman, Mr. Henderson, didn't smile at me today. He just looked at me and sighed. "Tricia," he said gently, "Dr. Cross was a hero. You need to take care of yourself, you hear?" I nodded and pushed the drawing and the soda into locker #27. Click. The little metal door shut. This was my special place for talking to my star. I came here every single day. Joshua said he went somewhere far, far away, to become a star in the sky and watch over me. I believed him. On my way home, I passed by the bakery. The most beautiful strawberry tarts were lined up in the window, the red berries gleaming like tiny, perfect hearts. Joshua used to buy these for me all the time. He’d always save the biggest, reddest one, spear it with a fork, and lift it to my lips. My silly girl deserves the sweetest things, he’d say. I decided to buy one, to mail to my star tomorrow. And then, a familiar shape reflected in the glass. I saw him. Joshua. He was back. He hadn't become a star at all. He was sitting right there, at a table by the window. And across from him was my best friend, Vivian. Joshua was smiling. His smile was just as handsome as I remembered. He took the little silver fork and carefully lifted the biggest, reddest strawberry from the cake. I froze, watching through the glass. Time seemed to stop. He moved the fork slowly, gently... and fed the strawberry right into Vivian's mouth. Vivian's eyes crinkled into happy little crescents, just like the moon. I knew that gesture. That strawberry was supposed to be mine. The bottle of orange soda slipped from my fingers. Pop. It rolled a few times on the pavement and came to rest by my feet. Fizz bubbled out across the concrete, like the tears I couldn't cry. But I wasn't crying. My world had gone completely silent. Me, on the outside of the glass. Them, on the inside. A new world, and an old one. The only thing I could see was that stolen strawberry. It was so red. Red like blood. A thought started to grow in my mind, very, very slowly. Joshua wasn't a star. He was a thief. He stole my strawberry. I turned away from the bakery. The little bell on the door didn't jingle for me. I walked slowly, my feet stepping on my own long shadow. The sun was setting. The streetlights flickered on, stretching my shadow until it was long and thin. I looked down at it. It looked back at me. Neither of us said a word. The walk home felt so much longer today. I passed the house of the man in the uniform who told me Joshua was a star. The lights were on inside. I could hear laughter. Liars. You're all liars. I got home and opened the door. The apartment was dark and quiet. I didn't turn on the lights. I like the dark. The dark is simple. You can't see lies in the dark. A photo of Joshua and me hung on the wall. He was holding me, smiling like the sun. I walked over to it and reached out, tracing the outline of his face. It was cold. I guess he'd always been cold. I went to my room. My bed was covered in stuffed animals. Joshua said they would keep me company while he was away. I picked up the biggest one, a floppy-eared rabbit with black, glassy eyes. I whispered to the rabbit, "Joshua is a thief." The rabbit said nothing. "He stole my strawberry." The rabbit still said nothing. "He and Vivian... they're bad kids." I set the rabbit aside and opened my sketchbook. The last page was the star I drew today. I stared at it for a long, long time. Then, I took a red crayon and drew a cross over it. A big, angry, red X. The old rules weren't fun anymore. Stars could fall from the sky. Heroes could be thieves. This game needed a new way to play. I flipped to a fresh page. With a black marker, I wrote the first new rule. 1. A bad kid who steals something has to give it back. I looked at the words, but it didn't feel like enough. I thought for a moment, then added a second line beneath it. 1. If they don't, they have to be locked away. I closed the book and tucked it under my pillow. My world needed new rules. And I was going to be the one to make them. 2 The next morning, I woke up early. Sunlight streamed through the window, but it carried no warmth. I pulled my rulebook out from under my pillow and read the two lines again. 1. A bad kid who steals something has to give it back. 2. If they don't, they have to be locked away. I nodded to myself. That was right. I got out of bed and poured myself a glass of water. I used to drink only soda, because Joshua said sweet things were for kids like me. I didn't feel like having anything sweet today. The water tasted like nothing, which was perfect. Sitting at my little table, I started to draw. Not a star this time, but a cake with one perfect strawberry missing. Across from it stood a little girl, crying. And opposite her, a man and a woman smiled, with tell-tale red stains on their lips. When I was finished, I tore the page out, folded it neatly, and put it in my pocket. The phone rang. It was Vivian. I stared at her name on the screen for a long time. She used to call me every day to see if I was okay. She said she would take care of me for Joshua. I answered. "Tricia, where were you yesterday? I called and you didn't pick up," her voice was as smooth and warm as ever. I didn't say anything. "Tricia? What's wrong? Are you feeling sick?" "The strawberry," I said. The line went quiet for a second. "What strawberry? Oh, Chlo, do you want some strawberry tart? I can bring some over later, okay?" "It was red," I stated. She laughed a little. "Of course, it was red, silly. Strawberries are always red." Her gentle laugh scraped against my ears. "You ate it," I said, each word a separate, hard little stone. The silence on the other end of the line stretched on, much longer this time. "Tricia... did you see something?" Her voice had changed. It was sharp now, anxious. I didn't answer. I just hung up and blocked her number. I don't need to talk to bad kids. I grabbed my little teddy bear backpack and put the drawing inside it. There was one more thing I needed. I opened Joshua's closet. It was filled with his clothes, all smelling of him—a clean, sunny smell of soap. Now it just smelled like lies. From the inner pocket of his suit jacket, I found a business card. It was for the hospital where he worked, with the director's name and number on it. I put that in my backpack, too. I was ready. The game had begun. I went to Joshua's hospital. Everyone here knew me. They called me "Mrs. Cross." Their eyes were always full of pity and respect. A kind nurse knelt down to my level. "Tricia, what are you doing here? Are you feeling alright?" I shook my head and pulled the drawing from my backpack. "I need to see the director." The nurse looked surprised for a moment, then smiled. "Of course. I'll take you." The director's office was huge, with a big wooden desk. The walls were covered in photos, and one of them was of Joshua. He was in his white coat, smiling handsomely. Underneath it, a plaque read: Our Hero. The director, a kind-faced man with white hair, sat me down and gave me a glass of warm milk. "So, Tricia, what can I do for you?" I handed him my drawing. He unfolded it. The smile on his face slowly faded as he studied the man, the woman, and the cake with its missing strawberry. "Tricia, this is..." "A thief," I said. "He stole my strawberry." The director looked at me, his eyes filled with a complicated expression. He seemed like he wanted to say something but couldn't find the words. He placed the drawing on his desk. "Tricia, Joshua was a good doctor, he..." "He's not a star." I cut him off, pulling the business card from my backpack and placing it next to the drawing. "He's a bad kid." The director stared at the card, then back at me, and let out a long, heavy sigh. He picked up his desk phone and dialed a number. "Yes, Bill, it's me... Regarding Dr. Cross's death benefits and the commendation... I think we need to put a hold on that and have a discussion... Yes, his wife was just here." I listened silently. I didn't know what "death benefits" or "commendation" meant. I just knew I had made the right first move. A picture of a bad kid needs to hang where everyone can see it. That's the only way they'll all know what he really is. 3 The sun was blindingly bright when I left the hospital. I didn't go home. I went to the park, the one where Joshua and I used to go all the time. Pigeons strutted across the pavement, cooing for breadcrumbs. Joshua once told me that pigeons carry messages to people who are far away. I sat on our favorite bench and pulled a small piece of bread from my pocket, crumbling it onto the ground. A fat pigeon waddled over and began to peck at the crumbs. I whispered to it, "Tell Joshua they're taking his picture down." The pigeon cooed twice, then took flight, soaring into the sky. It would deliver the message. I was sure of it. I started going to the same park every day, sitting on the same bench. I stopped visiting the mail locker. That was a place for sending letters to stars, and Joshua wasn't a star. He didn't deserve my letters. I bought a new notebook, a hardcover one with a very serious-looking cat on the cover. I liked him. I named the notebook my "Bad Kid Record Book." On the first page, I glued a promotional flyer from the hospital that I'd taken. It had Joshua's picture on it. I used a red pen to draw a big question mark over the word "Hero." Then, I started to draw. I drew the scene in the bakery. Joshua's smile, Vivian's mouth, and the missing strawberry. I drew it in great detail, right down to the wood grain on the table. Every day I came to the park, and every day I added something to my book. Sometimes pictures, sometimes words. Today, Vivian called again. I didn't answer. Today, I saw her waiting by my front door. I used the back entrance. Today, Mrs. Gable from next door asked why the hospital took Joshua's picture down. I told her it was because he steals things. Mrs. Gable gave me a very strange look. She didn't believe me. That was okay. I would make them all believe me. There was an old man who also came to the park every day. He always sat on the bench across from me, reading his newspaper. Sometimes, he would watch me. I didn't mind. In my world, there was only my rulebook and my mission. One afternoon, I was sketching a picture of Joshua and Vivian holding hands. I'd seen them the day before, hiding behind an aisle at the supermarket. They thought I didn't know. Silly them. The old man walked over. "Young lady," he asked, "what is it you're drawing so intently every day?" I looked up at him. His eyes were kind, not full of pity like everyone else's. I handed him my book. He turned the pages one by one, very, very slowly. His expression shifted from curiosity to seriousness. He pointed to my drawing of the bakery. "When did this happen?" "On my birthday," I said. He then pointed to the picture of them holding hands. "And this?" "The day before yesterday. At the grocery store." He closed the book and handed it back to me. "What's your name?" "Tricia." "My name is Peterson," he said. "I'm a retired police officer." A police officer. Police officers catch bad people. My eyes lit up. I looked at Mr. Peterson and asked, my voice full of hope, "Officer, are you going to help me lock up the thief?" He blinked, then a small smile touched his lips. "I'll do my best." 4 Mr. Peterson was true to his word. From that day on, he didn't just read his newspaper. He brought a small notepad and would ask me questions. "Tricia, do you remember exactly when Joshua 'became a star'?" I tilted my head, thinking. "When the balloons in the shop windows started to droop." "And who gave you his phone that day?" "A man in a uniform. He said his name was Davis." Mr. Peterson jotted it all down. He asked me about Vivian, too. "When did she start being 'extra nice' to you?" I thought hard. "Right after Joshua left." "What kind of things would she do for you?" "She'd help me pay the bills, buy my groceries... She even took my bank card and said she'd help me manage my money." Mr. Peterson's brow furrowed. "Your bank card? Which one?" "The one Joshua gave me. He said it had lots and lots of money in it." His pen flew across the page. "Tricia, you're doing great," he said. "These are very important clues." I didn't know what clues were. I just knew that I was playing a game of "Find the Bad Kids" with Mr. Peterson, and we were on the same team. Besides talking to him, I started a new task. I began to go through all of Joshua's things. His closet, his desk, every box he'd left behind. I used to be afraid to touch them, scared I'd disturb the lingering scent of him. I wasn't scared anymore. The smell of lies needed to be aired out. Tucked away in the lining of an old suitcase, I found something. It was a movie ticket stub, dated from last winter. On that day, Joshua had told me he was attending a very important medical conference and would be back in three days. I remembered it perfectly, because it was snowing heavily and I missed him so much. But next to the ticket stub was a small receipt. A receipt for two hot chocolates. I stared at that receipt, and a memory sparked. That same night, Vivian had posted a photo to her social media. It was a picture of a hand holding a cup of hot chocolate, with the caption: Snowy nights are better with a friend. I had even 'liked' the post at the time. I scrolled back through Vivian's feed, back, back, back for what felt like forever. And there it was. The picture. I laid my phone, the movie ticket, and the receipt for two hot chocolates side by side on the table. Evidence. Mr. Peterson said that's what this was called. Evidence. I carefully placed all of it inside my Bad Kid Record Book. The thief's trail was getting clearer. 5 Joshua was getting nervous. He didn't contact me directly. He sent Mr. Davis, the "man in the uniform," to my door. He was waiting for me one afternoon, looking tired and unshaven. He wasn't stern like before; his smile was weak and pleading. "Tricia, how have you been?" I just stared at him. He pulled a thick envelope from his pocket. "Joshua asked me to give this to you. He said it must be hard for you, living alone. This should help." I looked at the envelope. It was fat with cash. Joshua used to tell me money could buy all the strawberry tarts in the world. But my strawberry wasn't for sale. It was stolen. I didn't take it. Mr. Davis's smile faltered. He pushed the envelope into my hands. "Take it, Tricia. You deserve it." The envelope felt dirty in my hands. "Joshua is a thief," I said. Mr. Davis's face stiffened. "Tricia, don't say things like that. Joshua... he had his reasons." "He stole my strawberry," I repeated. "What does a strawberry have to do with anything!" he snapped, his patience wearing thin. "Tricia, just be a good girl, take the money, and stop spreading these stories. It's better for you, and for Joshua." I looked right at him and asked, "Did you eat my strawberry, too?" He froze, his mouth hanging open, speechless. I pushed the envelope back into his chest. "I don't want a thief's money." I closed the door, shutting him out. I heard him sigh heavily, and then his footsteps faded down the stairs. The next day, I went to a big toy store. I used my own money to buy the most expensive, most beautiful dollhouse they had. It was three stories tall, with a balcony and a garden—everything I ever dreamed a house could be. I brought it home and set it up right in the middle of my living room. Then I found two of my old dolls, a boy and a girl. With a black marker, I drew a little thief's mask on the boy doll's face. On the girl doll's lips, I dabbed a tiny speck of red, like strawberry juice. I placed them together in the master bedroom on the top floor. Every day, I would talk to the dollhouse. "Hello, thief. Are you happy today?" "Where did you hide the things you stole?" Vivian saw it all when she came to find me. She barged in and froze, her eyes fixed on the dollhouse and the two figures inside. Her face went pale. "Tricia... what is this? What are you doing?" I picked up the girl doll and held it out to her. "Look," I said. "You ate the strawberry. Now your mouth is all dirty." 6 I stopped going to the park. Mr. Peterson said the bad kids knew we were onto them now, and it was safer for me to stay home. He came to visit me every day instead, checking my locks and reminding me not to open the door for strangers. He became my new best friend. I told him all about my dollhouse. He listened intently. "Tricia," he said, "you're much smarter than they think." I don't know about smart. I just know my game has to be played by my rules. Vivian came by every day. She wouldn't knock, she would just stand outside my door for a long time. Sometimes she'd slip things through the mail slot—a piece of cake, a new dress. I collected everything she left and threw it all in the dumpster outside. Gifts from bad kids are poison. Joshua didn't show up again, but he was watching me in other ways. I noticed a black car was always parked down the street. There was someone inside. I drew the curtains and pretended not to see. I knew they were scared. Scared of my dollhouse, scared of my record book, scared of my new rules. I started a new project. I gathered all the gifts Joshua and Vivian had ever given me. A necklace from him with a tiny star pendant. A sweater from her with a cute bunny on it. A music box he'd made himself that played "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star." I arranged them, one by one, around the dollhouse, like offerings at an altar. Mr. Peterson saw the display on his next visit. He was silent for a long time. Then he stroked my hair and said, "Tricia, if you're sad, it's okay to cry." I shook my head. "I'm not sad." It was the truth. My heart felt perfectly calm, like the sea just before a hurricane. I picked up the star necklace. Using a pair of small pliers, I snipped the little star pendant off the chain and dropped it in the trash. Then, I took the bunny sweater and a pair of scissors and carefully cut out every single bunny. Last was the music box. I opened it, and the delicate melody began to play. Twinkle, twinkle, little star... I found a small hammer. Just as the music reached its highest note, I lifted the hammer high and brought it down with all my strength. SMASH. The music stopped. The world went quiet. I looked at Mr. Peterson. "See? Broken things need to be fixed." Or destroyed.
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