Caiden’s sandwich sat untouched in his lap. He unzipped a side pocket of his backpack and pulled out a tiny plastic dinosaur.
He set it on the concrete beside us and rolled it back and forth with his finger. “They say these guys had brains the size of a walnut, but they survived for millions of years.” He nudged it toward me. “Guess it’s not always about being smart, huh?”
I took the dinosaur and rolled it between my palms.
It was warm from his pocket. I imagined keeping it, hiding it under my pillow, building a secret nest of things that belongedonly to me: the dinosaur, a bone I’d found in the woods, a photo booth strip of my parents from before everything went bad.
Maybe if I slept with these treasures close, I’d wake up in a world where people didn’t leave.
“My mom fell asleep in the bathtub once, and the water turned cold around her, and when she woke up, she screamed so loud the neighbor called the police."
I wasn't sure why I told him this; it wasn't a contest, but it felt close. I remembered the way her voice had sounded that night, thick and tangled, and the way the police officer had squatted down to my height and asked if I wanted to stay at someone else's house for the night.
I’d said no, because the only thing scarier than my mother was the idea of leaving her behind. Or coming back and finding her gone.
Caiden nodded like he understood, though maybe he just wanted to.
He prodded his sandwich once, then picked it apart, piece by piece, pinching the bologna into tiny rolls before dropping them onto the concrete for the crows.
They came quickly, strutting closer with their oily, rainbow-black feathers and their cartoon villain eyes.
"They're smart," I said, pointing. "Crows. I saw it on TV."
"Yeah," he said, watching them. "They remember faces. If you're mean to them, they never forget."
The crows picked at the meat, hopping back every time a car drove past, then inching closer again.
One of them had a limp, dragging its left foot behind like dead weight. I wondered if it ever hurt or if it got used to being broken, the way you get used to the smell of your own house after a while.
We watched in silence as the crows warred over the scraps. When they finished, Caiden wiped his hands on his jeans, thenturned to me and said, “Sometimes I wish I were a crow. I’d just fly away, never come back.”
“Where would you go?” I asked. My voice sounded thin, even to me.
“Anywhere, away from here.”
I didn’t want to tell him I’d thought about the same thing, only my way out was more like melting into the walls or slipping between the floorboards, somewhere small and warm and quiet.
My mom always said home was people, not a place, but I knew that was a lie.
People left. Houses stuck around.
After school, I stood outside the doors awkwardly as I watched all the kids either hop onto the bus or be picked up by one of their parents.
Mom wouldn’t be here; I already suspected that. Lillian had stayed home today to be there for our mom, so she wasn’t here with me for the sad walk home.
It wasn’t fair to Lillian. She was only three years older than me, but still a kid. A kid taking care of her mom.
The parking lot dissolved to emptiness.
The crossing guard, Mrs. Salter, retreated to her minivan with the engine already running, and the last bus stuttered from the curb, coughing blue smoke.
I had the dull ache in my knee and a hollow slosh in my stomach, but mostly what I felt was the slow coil of dread.
Every minute I stood outside, the more I knew what was waiting at home. Maybe Mom would still be passed out, or maybe she would be up and half-there, chain-smoking and twitchy, in a mood to pick apart the world like a vulture at roadkill.
Caiden lingered by the brick wall, pretending he was digging in his bag but really just glancing over at me every few seconds.
I watched my own shoes, which were a little too small and pinched the edges of my toes, and tried to ignore that I was the only kid left who needed walking home.
