: They discovered they could fit through the unlocked basement window of the old town library, spending afternoons reading by the glow of a single flashlight among the archives.
: Mia showed him how to climb the trellis behind the bakery. They sat on the narrow ledge, eating "ugly" day-old donuts and watching the sun set over the town.
He looked up. A girl, no taller than him, stood there holding a rusted watering can. Her hair was a chaotic nest of braids, and she wore an oversized Hawaiian shirt that swallowed her frame.
"Ready for the big world tomorrow?" Mia asked, her elbow bumping his.
By the time the first yellow leaf drifted onto the porch, Leo realized he hadn't grown an inch physically. But the "Tiny Summer" had changed the way he saw himself. He wasn't "small" in a way that meant "less than." He was small in a way that meant .
: Where he sat every morning, watching the dust motes dance in the light. From down there, the world looked monumental.
Mia didn't care about the quarry or the high school bonfire. She saw the town as a giant’s playground where they were the only ones who knew how to use the secret passages. Over the next three weeks, Leo’s "tiny summer" transformed:
