Collection

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Cora watched the boy hobble into the classroom, feeling an unpleasant suspicion twisting around in her gut. Third time this year that Robbie had broken a bone; and while some children were just unlucky, Cora didn't think it was just bad luck dogging this child. Not unless you counted the luck of the draw when it came to parents.

Robbie's mother had run off with a trucker when the boy was three years old; Robbie's father was rumored to be a prodigious and violent drunkard, although he was apparently smart enough to do most of his drinking out of town. Robbie himself was a small child, with the kind of face that always looked bruised around the eyes. Cora sometimes wondered whether he ever got any sleep at all. A bit of prying had revealed that he and his father lived out by the woods in an old Airstream trailer, but nothing beyond that. She didn't like to get too nosey about her students.

The problem, she found herself thinking as the clock edged towards 7:30, was that Robbie's case was so... unusual. He acted enough like any second-grader, and seemed only a little shy. Loud voices or noises did not cause him any apparent fear. He committed the usual number of classroom transgressions, and responded to discipline just as well as the other children. But there was that look he got, sometimes, when no one was paying him much attention, as though he were sadder than any little boy had a right to be...

And there was the fact that he kept breaking bones, of course. And the oddly-shaped bruise she had once found on his arm, that he had refused to talk about. That was the one time he had seemed... fearful. As though the bruise was part of some guilty secret. Cora wondered now, for the millionth time, whether she should say something to someone, or whether she was just being paranoid.

The morning bell rang, and Cora forced herself to smile as she rose from her desk. "Good morning, class," she said, and "Good morning, Miss Sedgwick," they all chorused back at her. Except Robbie, who was looking down at his fresh white cast as if afraid to meet her eyes. By the end of the week, she knew, it would be covered with the names of classmates; more well-wishing signatures for a collection already bigger than any child that age should have.

On Diesel

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Phoenix rolling up behind him now, rearview eventually giving way to rock-strewn emptiness, and he was on his way. North to Flagstaff, east to Albuquerque, a quick run through Amarillo. Nick had christened his truck the Yellow Kid a few years back, once it became apparent that the Phoenix-to-Oklahoma-City drive had sort of unofficially become his. Nobody got it.

Nick flicked through the radio spectrum for a while, trying to find something that wasn't either brimstone or steel guitars, but finally gave it up as a lost cause. Instead he hummed to himself, some song he'd heard recently about a cat in the rain, or something, he wasn't sure; it was in Spanish, which he had known as a kid but managed to mostly forget somewhere along the way. Probably the song had nothing to do with cats, or rain.

Once or twice he glanced at the photo taped to the dashboard; it was an old one, and the kids were still frozen at four and six and running laughing through Teresa's backyard. There were newer photos at the house in Wichita, he knew, but he preferred the ones that still had Charlie in them. Teresa's daughter Julieanne was in high school now. Every Christmas Teresa sent him family pictures, which he kept in a shoebox. On his dashboard Charlie and Julieanne laughed and ran, and neither cousin betrayed any knowledge of the fall that would neatly remove Charlie from future scenes. Nick was pretty sure you could see the offending tree in the background of that photo. He'd never asked which one it had been, though. Hadn't even been there in the first place. He'd been on the road.

He worked the gears, babying The Yellow Kid up a hill, and then eased it down the other side. In a couple of hours he'd stop at the same diner he always stopped at outside Phoenix. Clara or Berenice or Steph would be there, one of the waitresses who'd served him coffee a hundred times before, and she'd ask him as she poured how his family was, and he'd lie and say fine. As far as Clara and Berenice and Steph were concerned, his wife was still around and his son was still alive. They all lived in a pretty little ranch house in Phoenix. Rhonda wasn't tired of him being gone all the time. Charlie's six-year-old neck hadn't snapped against the hateful ground. Nick enjoyed the fantasy.

Tonight he would sleep in the cab of his truck, and tomorrow night, and probably the night after that, before catching a Greyhound up to Wichita. He'd sleep on his sister's couch, say hi to his niece, and then go back to The Yellow Kid and get back on the road. He didn't have a home; or if he did, then the Kid was it. The pretty little ranch house in Phoenix had been sold years ago, once he no longer had a wife or child to share it with him. Now all he really had was the road.

It was enough, Nick told himself firmly.



Yeah, I don't know. It was going to be a quiet little reflection about a guy with a quiet little life, rolling from job to job, occasionally seeing his sister but otherwise being very much alone. Then I started channeling Richard Bachman at his weakest. Next I guess I die of cancer of the pseudonym?

Bank

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"But I spent it all, mommy," Billy whined. "I got some candy an' some gum an' bet Franklin fifty cents he couldn't eat this worm I found."

Monica paused in the act of folding the laundry, staring at her son. "You bet him what?"

Billy shrugged. "It was a big worm. I didn't think he'd really do it."

"Okay, fine," Monica replied, shuddering. "It doesn't matter how you spent your allowance, it's still gone. You'll have to wait until next Saturday."

"But I want more money now! Joel's got a Grimlock action figure he doesn't want anymore an' he says he'll give it to me for only three dollars!"

Monica dropped a clean towel onto his head, and smiled at his outraged squawk. "Funny thing, I seem to remember your allowance being only two dollars a week."

"Yeah, well." Billy gazed studiously down at the towel as he balled it up in his hands. "I was kinda hopin' you'd give me a little bit extra, too."

"Oh really." She reached out to tousle his hair. "Maybe I should ask my boss for a little extra money, too, if it works that way."

Billy gave her a wide-eyed look. "So... no money?"

"Not a cent till Saturday, champ."

"Aww, mom," Billy replied, but he left easily enough. Monica chuckled to herself, then paused.

Maybe he'd given up a little too easil --

CRASH!, went something in Billy's room, and Monica hurried there to see if her suspicions were correct. They were. She groaned.

"Billy, sweetie, your piggy bank does have a removable plug in the bottom."

He looked down at the hammer in his hand, the coins scattered amid ceramic shards on his desk; then he looked back up at her. "Oops?" he replied.



I've had about five piggy banks throughout my life.

Every single one had a plug on the bottom.

Has anyone in the real world ever actually had to smash one to get at the money inside?

Red

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Marty peeked over the fence again, then ducked down before Old Man Seeger saw him. "Nah, it's just watermelon juice," he reported. "I'm pretty sure."

"Nuh uh," Greg said from his position atop the slide. "It's blood 'cause he killed a guy. And then he cut the body up an' threw the parts in the creek. I saw 'im."

"You didn't see nothin', Greg Morrison," Terry replied scornfully. "You saw someone walkin' around by the creek, an' then you found somethin' that mighta been a guy's leg all rotted up but was prolly a dead raccoon."

"It was a leg," Greg said for about the tenth time. "I could see the little toe-bones."

"Because there for sure aren't any little bones in a raccoon," Terry concluded triumphantly. She was a year older than the rest of th em, and tolerated despite her know-it-all nature (and her status as Marty's big sister) primarily because she was the only one of them who could always think of something fun to do. It had been her idea to start using the old Catholic school playground, even though nobody else really did anymore. Brookhurst Elementary's playground was better, really, but since St. Clare's had closed two years back, its swings and slides went basically unused. Unless Old Man Seeger came over from next door and used them, that was.

Greg launched himself down the slide, then climbed back up its curving surface. "Nobody uses a knife that big just to eat watermelon," he argued. "So even if the stuff on his knife is just juice, Seeger's still a crazy killer. A completely crazy killer who stabs guys in their sleep." He sounded rather chipper about the matter.

Throughout all this Pat had been listening silently, idly tracking one sneakered foot through the dirt as he twisted back and forth on a swing. He laughed now, and the sound cut across the quiet spring evening. "Bet you ten dollars you can't go up to Ol' Man Seeg's and knock on the door," he said to Marty.

"No way!" Marty scrambled away from the fence separating the playground from Seeger's yard as if the old man himself might come leaping over at any second. "I don't think he's a murderer, but he's still all creepy."

Pat grinned. "Anyone?" He rooted around in his pocket for a few seconds, at last extracting a grimy ten-dollar bill. "Just go up to his door an' knock, an' if he answers, say somethin' to him." He wiggled the bill at them.

"I'll do it," Greg answered. He came down the slide again, walked over to Pat, and held out his hand. "I'll ask 'im if he's seen my dog."

Terry looked doubtful. "I don't think that's a good idea, Greg. I mean, he is creepy. And it's getting late."

"Yeah, Greg, it's almost dark," Pat added mockingly. "Ain't you scared?"

"No way!" Greg shouted, and snatched the money out of Pat's hand. "You wait right here, an' I'll prove it!"

None of them moved much as he stalked off the playground, headed for the house next door. When eventually Marty thought to peek over the fence to try to see what was going on, the house was still. Neither Greg nor Old Man Seeger was in evidence. They waited maybe half an hour more, and then Terry's watch beeped. "Eight o'clock," she announced softly. "Time for me an' Marty to go home."

"Yeah, me too," Pat replied. He glanced again toward the Seeger house. "I bet he just took my money an' ran," he added, with little conviction. "Sure. Just took it an' went right home."

"I hope so," Terry said.

Pat went on to his home, and Terry and Marty to theirs. Sometime after midnight, a dark figure dumped something by the creek, but no one was there to see it.

Never Tired

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"Again," came the command, and he winced. Small hands tugging at his sleeve; small eyes boring up into his own. "Again, Grampa, please?"

He rubbed his aching eyes. His mouth was dry, his throat parched. He had a feeling that he had been hungry for a very long time.

"Grampa." The thing tugged at his arm, harder this time. "Read it to me again." Its voice still didn't sound quite human, but it was eerie how close it was. He could almost believe that it was his granddaughter seated on his knee, begging for another recitation of "Goldilocks and the Three Bears".

Of course, the illusion was weakened somewhat by the presence of his actual granddaughter's corpse a few feet away.

He forced his attention from little Vera's body, back to the book he had already read so many times before. He cleared his battered throat, once more wishing for something to drink, or eat; or for sleep; or for death. "Once upon a time," he began again.

The thing which was not his granddaughter -- which was not human at all, but only some thing which had somehow taken her place, tossing her aside like a broken doll -- leaned into him, a grotesque mockery of the little girl whose form it took. He had no idea what it was, or where it had come from, or even why it was making him read the same storybook for what had to have been weeks on end. He didn't even know how that was possible, but it was true all the same. Vera's body remained unchanged on the floor; he knew neither sleep nor any more permanent form of respite; yet here he sat, reading Goldilocks over and over again.

The thing looked up at him with wide eyes, so much like Vera's, only strangely offset, as though the skull itself were somehow distended. It had not looked much like her at the start. No, when he had come into the room, seen Vera on the floor and the thing standing by her bed, book clutched in one... he could not properly call it a hand... there at the start, it had not looked human at all.

It appeared to be learning, though. He wondered what would happen to him once its transition was complete.

"There were three bears," he continued, once more; and the thing offered a contented little sigh.



Look, you tell me what's with that kid's eyes. I mean, yeesh.

Can I really be blamed for assuming the Lovecraftian worst?

Of course, after this and "Typewriter", I should probably go back to the regular kind of depressing, existential, properly Pluggers-esque horror for a while. Ia! ia!, and such.

Peek

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Sheriff Louie paused in the act of riding an imaginary horse across the backyard. "Now I gotcha!" he yelled, and plugged the grim outlaw Bad Bart with a few imaginary bullets.

The grim outlaw, for his part, seemed to be paying no notice to the little drama in which he was involved. He was kneeling in a manner wholly unbecoming to a corpse, hands pressed up against the wooden fence that separated their yard from the one next door, one eye glued to a knothole. The sheriff tried shooting him a few more times, then gave up in disgust.

"Hey, Bart, what are you -- "

The older boy whipped his head around and fixed Louie with a glare. "Shh!" he hissed, turning back to the fence.

Louie joined his brother at the fence, sitting down cross-legged beside him. "What are you doing?" he repeated in a loud whisper.

"'M watching Missus Lee be naked," Bart replied in the tone of voice often used to describe religious experiences.

Louie, for his part, merely sat there for a few moments, digesting this. Then he cocked his head. "Yeah?"

Bart nodded. "She's sittin' in a chair by her pool an' I think she's sleepin', and she's naked. All she's wearin' is just a little thing of underwear." He gave his little brother a meaningful look. "And not nothing on top."

"If she's got underwear on, she's not naked," Louie argued. Bart shrugged, his attention turned to the knothole again. After a second Louie raised up onto his knees. "Come on, Bart, I'm bored. Let's play some more."

"You can play stupid little kid games if you want," Bart replied, not looking at him. "But I don't wanna."

Stung, Louie stood up and backed away a few steps. "Fine," he replied; then, pitching his voice to a shout, "If you wanna look at Missus Lee be naked, go ahead!" He turned and pelted back to the house as from the other side of the fence came the sound of another set of footsteps, hurrying away across poolside concrete.

Cowlick

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"Neil!" Cora called toward the staircase, setting the casserole dish down on the table. "Dinner's ready, sweetie!"

There was no answer, and after a few moments Tony walked over to the stairs, cupping his hands theatrically around his mouth. "I'm comin' up after you, kiddo! You better not be into anything you shouldn't be, or there's going to be ticklings!"

That got a response, and both parents grinned. "I'm coming!" Neil replied from somewhere upstairs, sounding vaguely panicked. "No tickling, I'm coming!"

From the kitchen, Cora could see her husband at the foot of the stairs, and could hear her son come padding toward their top. Suddenly Tony's jaw dropped, at what, she could not see; she felt a little trill of fear go through her. "Is something wrong? Neil, sweetie, are you all right?"

"I'm fine, mommy!" the boy answered as he came thumping down the stairs. She smiled, watching him come into view -- first his feet, still clad in socks with dinosaurs printed on them; his legs and body, one little arm reaching up to grip the bannister; and lastly, his head --

"Oh dear," Cora managed, before dissolving into shocked laughter.

Tony favored her with a mock glare, then squatted down beside Neil. "Now, son, I know you want to be just like me when you grow up. And that makes me feel really good as a dad, believe me." He paused. "But from now on, don't give yourself any more haircuts, okay? Let us take care of that."

"Okay, daddy," Neil answered cheerfully. Cora resisted the urge to giggle again at the sight of them together, both of them now bald as eagles, save one springy cowlick on each head.

Down Further

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Vince paused briefly on his way out, one hand on the open door, to call "Goin' now, bye mom!" Before he could make his escape, though, he could hear her coming down the stairs. He groaned. So much for getting out before she could catch him; she'd follow him right outside if she had something to say, meaning he might as well stay here and get it over with.

As she came down the stairs and caught sight of him, her eyes went wide for a second. Then they narrowed and she heaved a sigh. "Vincent, my child, my dear little boy, what are you wearing?"

"I'm not little, mom," he grumbled. "I'm almost fifteen. And this is what all the kids are wearing."

"All the kids are wearing pants down around their knees? Really?" She leaned on the bannister and crossed her arms. "I seem to remember that being the style back when I was in school, and it was ridiculous then, too." Then, almost as an afterthought, "And close the door, please, you're letting the cold air in."

Vince complied, even though he'd rather be on the other side of the door right about now. "C'mon, mom, I don't want the other guys to think I'm weird or anything..."

His mother burst out laughing. "Oh, because certainly there's nothing weird about walking around with your underwear showing." Her eyes twinkled. "I seem to remember that not so many years ago you were wearing underwear with little rocket ships on it. Funny, you didn't seem so excited about showing that off for your little friends."

"Mo-om," Vince protested.

Chores

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"Kenny!"

He ignored his mother's voice wafting up from the kitchen; truth be told, he didn't even notice it. All his attention was focused on the words in front of him, on the world of gods and magic and ambulatory furniture.

"Kenny!"

He'd gotten two books for his birthday last year, had borrowed several more from the library. One wondrous day he had found, lurking in the back of the used-book store down the street, four ragged volumes priced at a quarter each. He had snatched them up immediately, bearing his plastic-bagged prize home as though it were made of glass.

At first his parents had only been glad to see him reading so willingly. Then, as his nigh-obsession became apparent, they tried first to ply him with other sorts of reading, then to curtail the hobby entirely. He had more or less become a junkie, and his drug was this author's work, this fantasy world that marched across the page. The only thing better than reading about it would be living in it.

"KENNETH MICHAEL YOU GET DOWN HERE RIGHT NOW!"

Kenny's head whipped up, his attention dragged at last from the book. He recognized that tone of voice. It was the one that meant that it was likely already too late to avoid punishment; probably he should have taken out the trash when she asked, except he'd figured he could read a little more before dinner --

He hid the book back under his mattress, then hopped up and made a run for the stairs. Maybe someday he could find a way out of this world, find the one where he could be a powerful magician who never had to do any chores he didn't want to, but right now he'd settle for not being grounded.


Magic and ambulatory furniture... maybe little Kenny has discovered Terry Pratchett, and maybe he's discovered the Elemenstor Saga. You can decide for yourself, because I like both possibilities.

It's definitely not The Song of the Sorcelator, though. Even a child can see through that tripe.

Banana Split

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Lynn tapped her brother on the shoulder excitedly. "Can I have half? I want half," she exclaimed. "Share?"

Laughing, Howie held the banana up above her head. "Get your own if you want some! This one's mine!" He reached up with his other hand and continued peeling the item of contention, laughing again as she made a playful jump for it.

"But if I have a whole one, my ears will itch!"

Howie rolled his eyes. "You know, generally speaking, if you have a negative reaction to a food, you just don't eat it."

"A little is okay! I'm not that allergic! And I like bananas." Lynn pouted. "Pleeease?"

"All right, all right." With an exaggerated sigh, he lowered his arms and broke off the top half of the banana. "And I don't even think you can be allergic to bananas anyway."

Lynn stuck out her tongue, then gleefully devoured her prize.

Number-Crunching

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"The problem these days is just keeping him occupied," Rose lamented. "I mean, he's a good boy, and he does all his schoolwork and all his chores. He's no more disobedient than any eight-year-old, really." She sipped at her tea. "Except as soon as he gets bored, he starts getting inquisitive. And that gets expensive."

Jessica clucked sympathetically. "My Billy used to always take apart his toys and then demand new ones. He gave up once he saw that it wasn't getting him anything but broken toys, of course, but still, it was awfully frustrating."

"No, no." Rose shook her head. "Scott isn't trying to be destructive, or breaking things and then asking to have them replaced. He just... wants to know things. Like how the bathroom scale works." She chuckled as she added, "I have to admit I'd never cared about it myself until I saw him with the thing in pieces all across my floor."

"Well, an inquisitive mind is a good thing to encourage in a child. He'll need problem-solving skills when he grows up, and all that."

"Oh, so they say. But they don't have to deal with the answer to an eight-year-old's question of 'how does a DVD player work'."

Jessica smiled over the rim of her teacup. "And what is that answer?"

"Now?" Rose answered wryly. "'It doesn't.'"

Time Spent

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An hour later, Nikki was still staring at the wall. Her arms weren't crossed anymore, but she was still frowning, and probably still quite prepared to keep being stubborn.

Lucy hovered in the doorway to her daughter's room for a moment, considering what to say next. Nikki was thirteen, with all the volatility that implied; the stubborn streak, though, was an older trait, going back at least to the girl's toddler days.

She cleared her throat. "Nik?"

No response from Nikki.

"Nik, I..." Lucy sighed. She entered the room and sat down on the bed next to her daughter, although not too close just yet. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have snapped at you like that, and I certainly shouldn't've taken away your video game." Nikki's eyes flickered, and Lucy added, "If I thought that your schoolwork was suffering, I would be right to restrict your free time. But you always have been a good student, so."

Finally Nikki looked over at her. "I've already got all my homework done tonight, and tomorrow's homework for English class too. Otherwise I wouldn't have been playing yet. But I had to spend a whole hour doing nothing anyway." Her tone was reproachful, but only mildly so; Lucy could tell that her apology was being considered. "It's not fair," the girl added matter-of-factly.

"Well, your game is back on the shelf now," Lucy said, smiling. "And next time I'll be better about not telling you what to do with your spare time. Although," and here she hesitated, "You know, I didn't say you couldn't do anything for the last hour. You could have read a book, or written in your diary, or done something besides sit there."

Nikki raised her head slightly, a little glint coming into her eye. "None of that was what I wanted to do," she replied. "So I just did nothing at all."

Lucy sighed a little, and shook her head. "Well, it's your time, dear. I guess you spent it the way you thought best."

Joystick

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Darren clambered up onto the back of the recliner; Shelly crouched on the seat as a counterbalance. They both giggled as he carefully worked his way up to what would be the top once the chair was back in an upright position.

Shelly grabbed the lever and grinned at her brother. "Ready to go to the moon, Captain Amazing?"

"Ready, Control!" Darren attempted a salute, and nearly overbalanced them both onto the floor. They giggled again.

"Preparing to launch the space-a-mo-bile, captain!"

"Begin the launch countdown!"

"Ten... nine... eight... six..."

"You forgot seven," Darren interrupted.

"Oh, whoops. Se...ven... six..." Shelly tightened her grip on the recliner's lever. "Five... four... three... two... one..."

"LAUNCH!"

Shelly pulled back on the lever, and Darren gave a loud whoop. Then, as the back of the recliner came up, he fell forward and down, landing on the floor in front of the chair. For a moment he and Shelly goggled at each other, and then he flung his arms up into the air.

"I'm on the MOON, Control! And there are space monsters everywhere!" He formed his hands into guns, aiming them at his sister. "Zzzap-zzzap-zzzap! Die, monsters!"

Shelly jumped to her feet and began bouncing up and down on the recliner. "I'm gonna eat your head, Captain Amazing! That'll teach you to come to the moo -- "

"Darren! SHELLY!"

They both turned towards the doorway, Darren still with his hands in the air, Shelly coasting gently to a stop on the seat of the chair.

"To your rooms! Both of you! Now!" Their mother glared at them as they both shuffled off. "For the last time, that recliner is not a toy!"

Beeper

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After a while the beeping noises from the kitchen got through to Stella, who looked up from her book with an expression of annoyance. "Vincent! Patty! What are you doing?!"

A fit of giggling was her answer, then the voice of her daughter. "Nothing, mom!"

"Doesn't sound like nothing," Stella snapped. She marked her place with the old receipt she was using as a bookmark, then rose and stormed into the kitchen. "It sounds like someone is playing with my new microwa -- "

As she rounded the corner into the kitchen, the scene that came into view stopped both her feet and her mouth. For a moment she only stared, gaping, at the pinkish goop spattered randomly over walls, counters, floors, children, and microwave. It appeared that the inside of this last was even messier than its outside. Patty and Vincent stared at her round-eyed from the center of the storm.

Stella blinked a few more times, then, as evenly as she could manage, enquired as to what, exactly, was going on around here.

"It was supposed to be a surprise," Vincent replied earnestly, wiping at one of the pink smears on his face. "Because dad bought you the microwave for a present he said, and if there's presents there should be cake, and so we were trying to make the cake ourselves..." He pointed at his sister. "It was her idea," he added.

"Is that true?" Stella managed. Patty nodded. "Why on earth would you try to bake a cake in the microwave?"

Patty looked confused. "Because we're not allowed to use the stove," she replied.

Stamps

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Marissa sat behind the wheel of her car, idling in a parking space outside the post office. She nodded to old Mrs. Foster as the latter was walking towards the building's front door; then she bolted up in her seat as the front door flew open and a small form barrelled down the sidewalk, nearly plowing into the woman. Pete stopped just long enough to apologize before speeding up again. He was breathless and giggling by the time he had gotten into the passenger seat of Marissa's car.

"Peter," she said sternly, "What have I told you about being more careful? You could have hurt Mrs. Foster badly!"

Pete squirmed a bit, looking down at his dirty sneakers. "Sorry mom," he mumbled.

"Now, did you get the stamps? Let me have them." She held out her hand, then raised an eyebrow as her son giggled again. "...Pete..."

"Um," Pete said, and grinned. His right hand had been in his jacket pocket the whole time; now he removed it, revealing a fistful of something, which he gave her. "Here you go!" he added brightly, and then continued laughing.

Marissa stared bemusedly at the mass of stamps in her hand. She had given him three dollar bills, and asked him to buy as many stamps as he could out of the machine; apparently it would have been helpful to specify what kind she actually wanted.

Then she would not have wound up with three hundred one-cent stamps, all crumpled together in a vague coil by a giggling eight-year-old.

"That was fun," Pete exclaimed. "I wanna buy stamps again sometime!"



Um, hey, Brookins and/or Boggess. They still sell those. I've got a small pile of lickable one-centers on the shelf by my desk right now, purchased maybe a month ago from a vending machine at the post office. They have lampshades on them.

Just because a way of doing something is old does not mean that it is not still in use, even in today's crazy modern world.

Polo

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"Mooooooom!" screeched Nathan from the backyard. "Stevie's not playing right!"

"How do you know anyway, huh?" Stevie yelled back. "You don't even know how to play this game!" He took a swing at his younger brother with the mallet, then looked up as a sudden shadow fell over him.

Kat held out her hand. "Give it here, Steven," she commanded, anger snapping from her eyes. Meekly her son handed over the polo mallet, then glared at Nathan. "And Nathan," she added, turning to the other boy, "if you want to play a game, you have to agree on the rules before you start. Otherwise I'll just have to take it away from you."

Nathan dropped his own mallet and swiped sullenly at his nose. "Stevie just said we should play with the polo sticks an' then he started saying I couldn't do things with 'em," he grumbled.

"Well, that's why you have to have all the rules before you start," Kat answered more calmly, kneeling down between her sons. "I don't know the rules to polo either; I just found the set in the garage and thought we might want to play sometime. Your dad might know, so maybe we should wait until he gets home and then we can ask him, okay?"

"But we wanna play now!" Stevie interrupted, and then lowered his head as his mother cast a stern look in his direction.

Kat gently took Nathan's mallet from him. "I think we'll wait to play this until later, okay? I shouldn't have put it out here yet, I think." She set the mallets down and wrapped both boys in a hug. "Find something else to play for now, okay? Then maybe we'll all four play together when dad gets home. If not, we'll do something else fun. Deal?"

Nathan nodded. She turned to Stevie and smiled encouragingly. Finally he shrugged. "We can play tag for now, I guess," he said grudgingly.

"You're it!" Nathan yelled, and scampered away. Stevie was immediately off after him, and Kat gathered up the mallets and balls as the sound of their laughter filled the backyard around her.