Chapter 2 - THE YELLOW SUN
The toddler flinched as the words hit the air.
He looked down at his light-up sneakers.
The right shoelace was untied, resting motionless on the hot asphalt.
He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing another tear to spill over his eyelashes.
His bottom lip trembled, pulling downward at the corners.
The woman thrust the yellow plastic truck closer to his face.
The plastic wheels spun slightly, emitting a hollow, grating squeak.
The boy shook his head.
His dark curls bounced wildly around his temples.
He pointed a small, dirty finger at the dump truck.
"Sun," the boy whispered, his voice cracking.
The woman’s green eyes narrowed into slits.
She gripped the toy tighter, the plastic groaning under her grip.
"No," she snapped. "Not the sun. The car."
The boy swallowed hard.
His chest hitched as he struggled to pull air through his congested nose.
He pointed at the blue scratch on the silver door.
"Sky," he mumbled, his child logic forming a desperate shield.
He looked up at her, his dark eyes wide and pleading.
"The sun doesn't make the sky."
The woman’s breath hitched.
She stared at him, the red strands of her hair blowing across her face.
She brushed the hair away with a sharp, impatient flick of her wrist.
She didn't hear the physics in his words.
She only saw the ruined clear coat of the family SUV.
She pressed the yellow plastic edge of the toy closer to the blue gouge.
The metal of the car radiated heat, warming the back of her hand.
The boy took another step back, hiding his small hands behind his back.
He curled his toes inside his sneakers.
If he made himself small enough, maybe the silver monster would swallow the blue line.
Maybe the yellow truck would turn back into a toy.
But the scratch remained, a neon wound in the midday sun.
The woman opened her mouth, her teeth pressed together.
She prepared to drop another heavy stone of guilt onto his small shoulders.
May you like
Before the sound could leave her throat, a shadow fell over the driveway.
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