Page 107 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

She’s so cute. She chooses a tiny pink teddy bear.

But instead of keeping it, Trouble goes and gives it to a little girl who’s near to tears after losing.

“Here, honey, this is for you,” she tells the child.

“Really? Mommy! Mommy look!”

The mother thanks us, and Clara waves goodbye.

Of course she gives her prize away. Sweet, thoughtful woman.

We’re halfway through the carnival, lights blinking overhead, the hum of generators and laughter wrapping around us, when I ask it.

“So,” I say, nudging her shoulder lightly with mine, “did you want to be a teacher or something?”

She looks up at me, puzzled. “What?”

“English degree,” I clarify. “That’s usually the pipeline, right?”

She snorts softly. “God, no.”

I grin. “That bad?”

“It’s not bad,” she says quickly. “It’s just everyone assumes that. English degree equals classroom.” She shakes her head, curls bouncing. “I didn’t want to teach.”

“What did you want?”

She hesitates.

And I see it—the flicker. The vulnerability.

“I wanted to be a writer,” she says finally, quieter now.

The way she says it makes it sound like a confession.

Like she’s admitting to something unrealistic. Childish. Impossible.

I study her face in the carnival glow. There’s a faint blush creeping across her cheeks.

“You say that like it’s embarrassing,” I tell her.

She shrugs, looking down at her shoes. “It’s not embarrassing. It’s just naïve.”

“Naïve?” I repeat.

She laughs softly, self-deprecating.

“Everyone wants to write a book at some point. It’s like saying you want to be a rockstar or an astronaut.”

“Yeah but, you did it.” I say, genuinely surprised.

“What?”

“You have to be the first person I know who actually did what they set out to do.”

She stops walking and looks up at me. “What?”

“You wanted to write. You write.”