Page 290 of What We Brave
I should go back to the framing. Three hours of good light left and I've got cuts to make and —
A boy tugs on my hand. Little guy, maybe five. Huge brown eyes. He's been hovering at the edge of the game all morning, watching but not joining. I know that kid. Iwasthat kid.
He points at the field. Then at me. Then at the field again.
I crouch down. My knees pop. The boy flinches at the sound, then giggles.
"You want to play?"
He nods. Still holding my hand. His fingers barely wrap around two of mine.
"Okay." I stand up. He doesn't let go. "Okay, come on."
Sofia sees us and immediately starts organizing. She points at the boy, points at her team, points at me. We're hers now, apparently.
The game kicks off again and the boy stays glued to my side. Doesn't go for the ball. Just runs where I run, stops where I stop. His hand is hot and sticky in mine and his grip tightens every time a bigger kid cuts close. I shift without thinking — put myself between him and the traffic. It's muscle memory, even though there's nothing evil out there waiting to get him.
I pass him the ball. Soft, right to his feet. He freezes. Looks up at me.
"Go ahead."
He kicks it. Goes about four feet. Another kid scoops it up, but the boy turns back to me with his whole face wide open.
"Good." I croak. He's fucking lit up. "That was good."
Reid's doing play-by-play. "And the rookie makes his debut — beautiful touch — the scouts are watching —"
The ball is lobbed our way and the boy kicks again. Harder this time. Still not great. His hand finds mine again after, like it's home base.
A bigger kid barrels past and I tuck the boy behind my leg. He peeks out, grins, darts back onto the field. Comes right back to my hand ten seconds later. The grip loosens and tightens. Loosens and tightens.
Damned if that little hand doesn't feel right in mine.
Sofia scores again. Reid collapses dramatically. The boy pulls me forward and I go. Let him steer. His sneakers are too big for him and he runs with his whole body.
I could do this.
The thought just — arrives. Quiet. No fanfare. I wait for the other voice, the one that always answers back.No you can't. You break things. Get back to the edge.
It doesn't come.
The boy laughs — the kind that shakes his whole small frame — and tugs me toward the ball. The sun is brutal on my shoulders and there's dust in my teeth and his sweaty hand is gripping mine like I'm the safest thing on this field.
I don't go back to the saw. I let myself just…play.
That's when I feel it. Eyes on me. That old prickle at the base of my skull that never really turned off.
I look up.
David is leaning against the corner of the building, arms crossed, thermos in hand. Not working. Not passing by.
Watching.
I don't know how long he's been there. Long enough, from the look on his face. He's not smiling exactly. It's something steadier than that. His eyes move from me to Reid to the kids to my hand where the boy is still hanging on.
My shoulders tighten. Old instinct.What did he see. What does he —
David takes a sip from his thermos. Nods once. Pushes off the wall and walks back toward the addition.
