She was crouched down in the corner, clenched up and tucked like a scared dog. The street was empty but for her and her crying. The kind of crying I don’t know what to do with. The hiccup, snotty kind. I asked if she was ok, if she was lost. She talked through her fingers, stuttered words expelled between shallow breaths. Her dog, Thunder had run off. Pulled the leash from her hand. She held out her palm, a thin red welt laid out like proof.
We searched the streets, me and her, calling and whistling. Found his black and brown hide tangled up in a bike rack outside a tattoo shop. He wiggled and howled and tucked his tail, knowing he’d done something wrong but not sure what.
She was already walking away when she spun around and yelled, thanks mister. Remember when you asked if there were any polite kids left in the world? I found one, right here in our home town.
Got me thinking that maybe the world ain’t going to hell after all. Got me thinking on the good stuff.