Bobby wasn’t happy. Little Sally pretended nothing was wrong.
Maybe it will go away, maybe Mother won’t hear him, maybe Mother won’t care.
“What is it, Bobby. Let me wipe those tears away, little man.”
Guess she heard.
Little Sally headed around the side of the tool shed.
“Sally!!! Come back here right now young lady.”
I’m in trouble.
“Bobby said you took his new toy, where is it?”
“Gramma gave it to me for my birthday.”
“It flew into the swimming pool.”
“Oh for God’s sake, Sally, it’s paper. How did it get there?”
“Sally flew it!”
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Photo by Francisco Echevarria on Pexels.com
“Bobby, give it back!”
“I didn’t take it, you’re being mean.” Bobby starts to cry.
“Sally, stop it now! What are you going on about?”
Bobby took my tower, it was right here.”
“Did too. Grandma gave it to me, it’s precious.”
“Did you look under the fridge, Sally, maybe it fell off.”
“Maybe the dog ate it.”
“Shut up, Bobby!”
Little Sally gets down on hands and knees and looks under the fridge.
“Gimme a flashlight, Bobby.”
“Get one yourself.”
“Mother!” Little Sally pokes around under the refrigerator with a finger. “Found it!”
“Shut up, Bobby.”
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She’d gotten in near midnight, after the evening shift at the group home. Her own home was a shambles: beer cans and wine bottles, scummy bong water, butts strewn all over the floor, some of them human. They weren’t supposed to be here.
Rodney emerged from the bedroom, a very drunk, half-clothed Britanny hanging off his shoulder, sharing his satiated grin.
“Sheralynn,” Rodney drew up his familiar shield of nonchalance. “I thought you were working a double shift.”
“They sent me home. Likely COVID exposure,” she wiped her brow, unsure if it was fever, or rage. “Everybody out. Now.”
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