He’s out there again… I can smell him.
There’ll be another gift on my doorstep by morning. A smear of blood on the doorknob; a strip of shirt cuff wedged in the letterbox. Enough to let me know he’s been.
I won’t see him.
I never do.
The paper said he was nineteen, that he was celebrating getting his exam results. A year late, sure, but the boy did it. The local rag loves that stuff–wayward kid pulls himself up from the bootstraps and makes good.
If it wasn’t for me.
What could I do?
I didn’t see him.
For more from Kevin G. Bufton, visit his website.