Chapter 7
Chapter
Seven
I lower my burner phone and put it away. I sent the message I wanted to send, and I feel quite pleased about it all.
I have other things to think about right now.
Like the boy in the distance. He’s seven.
He’s old enough to ride a bike without training wheels but young enough that someone still has to watch him circle the driveway. Today, his father is watching him—watching being a relative term. The father’s phone is lit up in one hand. It has been since before the boy even left the porch.
I’ve learned the pattern. Before lunch, the bike comes out.
The father only half pays attention to the boy as he rides.
That’s important.
I sit far back, tucked into the gap between two parked cars. I’m where no one will see me. The boy hums while he rides—the same three notes, over and over, a song he probably doesn’t know he’s singing.
Kids do that. They think the world is only paying attention to the parts of them they choose to show. Little do they know the truth . . .
The boy circles the driveway. Once. Then twice. On the third pass, he stands up on the pedals, his arms out as if he’s going to try out to be a daredevil at the circus one day.
My chest tightens and warms at the same time, but I don’t examine the feeling too closely. I’ve learned not to.
His father calls his name, phone still in one hand.
For a moment, he actually watches his boy. The father believes his son is safe, even with his attention compromised.
The sheer normalcy of it leads to a certainty that nothing will happen.
The boy finally circles back, drops his bike in the grass, and disappears inside. His father lingers another moment.
He looks my way. Does he sense I’m here?
I start to shrink but change my mind. I shrink for no one.
After another moment, the father goes inside, and the door shuts.
I stay a while longer, watching and running today’s events over in my head.
Soon, I think.
Not today. But soon.