At the end of practice, the arrows were counted in pairs.
“Two, four, six, eight,” Carlos whispered as he placed them in the rack.
The bamboo shafts clicked softly against the wood. Outside, the last light of day lay across the grass.
Carlos reached the final space in the rack.
It was empty.
He counted again. This time he touched each pair.
“Two, four, six…”
One arrow was missing.
Carlos remembered his last shot. The arrow had landed near the edge of the safe practice area. He had watched an adult collect the arrows—or had he only thought he had?
His stomach tightened.
The dojo smelled of cedar, dry grass, and the faint oil used to care for the equipment. Cloth bags rustled as the other students packed.
If Carlos said nothing, perhaps the arrow would be found tomorrow.
Or perhaps no one would notice at all.
He looked at the dark empty slot.
It seemed much larger than one arrow.
Carlos wanted to search alone before anyone noticed.
He could slip outside, check the grass, and return before the last bow. If he found the arrow, no one would need to know.
His feet almost moved toward the door.
Then he remembered the loose thread on the glove. He had wanted to fix that problem by himself too. Aiko-senpai had helped him understand that stopping and telling could be part of care.
A missing arrow was not only embarrassing. It could be dangerous if someone entered the practice area without knowing where it was.
Carlos touched each fingertip to his thumb.
“Notice. Stop. Tell. Protect,” he whispered.
Mr. Tanaka was closing a storage cabinet nearby.
Carlos crossed the floor and bowed.
“Mr. Tanaka, I think one of the arrows is missing. One of mine I’m almost certain.”
The words came out small, but they came out clearly.
Mr. Tanaka closed the cabinet. “Thank you for telling me right away.”
Carlos waited for the next question.
“Where do you remember seeing it last?”
Carlos pointed toward the far edge of the range. “Near the marked boundary. It was my last shot.”
“Good,” Mr. Tanaka said. “We will check safely.”
No one scolded Carlos. Still, his heart beat fast.
Mr. Tanaka raised one hand. The room became quiet.
“An arrow is unaccounted for,” he said. “The range stays closed until we locate it.”
The adults checked that no one was downrange. A red marker remained across the entrance. No one stepped past it until Mr. Tanaka gave permission.
Carlos stayed beside the group while the adults made a plan.
They began at the arrow rack and followed the marked search path. Mr. Tanaka assigned each person a narrow strip of ground to scan.
“We look with our eyes first,” he said. “We do not run, reach into thick plants, or pick up an arrow until an adult says it is safe.”
Dusk settled around them. Dry grass brushed Carlos’s ankles. Crickets ticked near the fence. The air smelled of warm earth and cedar bark.
Carlos searched the strip beside Mr. Tanaka. He looked between grass blades, under the edges of broad leaves, and along the low boundary rope.
Nothing.
They moved to the next strip.
Carlos’s worry began making new questions.
What if we never find it? What if practice cannot begin tomorrow? What if everyone thinks I was careless?
Mr. Tanaka seemed to notice Carlos’s silence.
“A careful search can take time,” he said. “Telling us early gave us enough light, enough people, and the right place to begin.”
Carlos looked back at the dojo. If he had searched alone, the others might have closed the range without knowing where he was. If he had stayed quiet, someone could have walked into the grass tomorrow.
The truth had not made the problem disappear.
It had made the problem possible to solve.
The sun slipped behind the trees.
For a moment, the grass became one dark color.
Then the moon rose above the dojo roof. Silver light spread across the practice area.
Carlos bent his knees slightly to see beneath a broad leaf. Something pale flashed near the stem.
A feather.
Carlos stopped where he was.
“Mr. Tanaka,” he called. “I see something here.”
Mr. Tanaka came to his side. He moved the leaf carefully and found the arrow lying flat in the grass.
He picked it up while everyone else stayed back.
Carlos let out a breath he seemed to have been holding since the empty slot appeared.
Back inside, Mr. Tanaka placed the arrow on the low inspection table. Moonlight shone through the open door while he checked the shaft, the feathers, and the nock.
“It needs a closer check before anyone uses it again,” he said. He set it apart with a note.
Carlos nodded. Finding the arrow did not mean assuming that it was safe.
“I’m sorry it was missing,” Carlos said.
Mr. Tanaka looked at him. “You are responsible for reporting what you notice. You did that.”
Relief warmed Carlos’s chest. Beneath it was another feeling—quieter and steadier.
He had been afraid the truth would make the problem larger. Instead, telling the truth had kept everyone safe and brought the whole group to the right place.
Carlos returned to the rack. He counted the remaining arrows once more and left the inspected arrow’s space open.
The empty place no longer felt like a secret.
Outside, a sparrow settled on the fence. It tucked its head beneath one wing as moonlight silvered the grass.
Carlos bowed at the doorway.
On the walk home, he noticed the moon touching roof tiles, leaves, and the tops of garden walls.
The light did not change what was there.
It helped him see clearly.
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