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“Hey, Lottie.” He steps onto the porch as I lock up. “Thank you.”
Always and forever, my little tater tot.
Three
“Lottie.”Milo tugs on my shirt, the same one I have yet to change out of after work. It’s covered in grease and who knows what else. “Is that snow?” His bright eyes blink up at me as I reach for my change.
“Have a fantastic day,” the young teen stationed behind the register chirps as I slip my change into my pocket.
One litter box, kitten food, litter, and, of course, an assortment of toys later, I’m out of arms. We will have to stop at home before heading to the food trucks because there is no way I can carry all of this and the food.
Luckily, I picked out the lightest litter available.
This time, Milo tugs on my coat, then grabs the lightest bag before dragging me from the pet store. “It is snowing,” he repeats, his excitement palpable in the crisp air.
I finally glance out the storefront. “Look at that.” Milo beams up at me. “It’s snowing.”
“How much do you think we are going to get? Do you think we can go sledding? Will we have a snow day tomorrow? Can we go to the park if we have a snow day?” Milo rapidly fires questions at me. Even the teenager chuckles at his excitement.
“Looks like nothing more than flurries, little dude,” she says, blowing her dark hair out of her face. She leans on the counter to see outside. “February is when we get the good stuff.”
“It’s October.” Milo looks dejected that this snow won’t last. “February is exactly one hundred and nine days away.”
The teen frowns and cocks her head, her lips moving as though she’s counting. I’m used to Milo’s ability to do math in his head like that, but not everyone gets it.
“Come on, my little tater tot.” I nudge him out the door. “Let’s get this stuff home.”
“Food trucks,” he insists. Kids remember literally everything. When Milo was almost two, I told him I’d take him for ice cream on his birthday. I thought he had forgotten. He didn’t, and he reminded me until I took him for a treat. “You said I could get a corn dog.”
Knowing I’ll give in, I steer him toward the sidewalk and try to reason with him instead of folding like a deck of cards. “I have all these bags.”
“Yes, you do.”
“Milo.”
“Lottie.”
Knowing this could continue for the entire trip back, I negotiate. “We can drop it off on our back porch and head to the food trucks.”
His little cheeks puff out, rosy with the chill in the air. At the street corner, he tilts his head back and sticks his tongue out. With his eyes closed, he laps at the flakes that fall into his mouth. “All right,” he agrees. “But only because I’m going to eat the snow in the meantime.”
“Understood.” As the little sign blinks to the walking guy, I pause and grip Milo’s coat. A strange feeling surges through me, and a moment later, a car comes speeding down the street, not pausing at the red light. The black sports car whips around, his tires squealing as he hurdles down the road.
“That’s how people die,” Milo whispers, his eyes wide as he looks both ways multiple times.
I can’t disagree with him. He’s right, and it’s a fact that we both know too well. “Come on, it’s clear.” It’s also the only street we must cross to return home.
“Why do you think he was rushing?” Milo questions as we step into the alleyway that leads to our back garage.
“How do you know it was a he?” The alley is quiet. No one is out here. It’s just a long stretch of a tight street. There are a few parked cars hugging the end of properties, while others are in their garages. It’s perhaps the only part of our small town that’s remotely unkempt. Trash cans from yesterday morning’s retrieval still sit at the edge of the properties, empty and waiting for their owners to drag them back in.
“Statistics,” Milo answers, his little hand still holding onto my coat. “Most drivers who speed like that are men.”
“No more internet for you,” I mutter under my breath. Milo doesn’t spend his time outside playing like normal little kids, although normal is subjective. He’s more inclined to watch documentaries, playMinecraft, and read. I’m not complaining. However, there are days when he falls into an internet hole, and I have to drag him out kicking and screaming. It looks like he found a hole regarding statistics.
“It’s true,” he insists, tugging on my coat again.
“Hey, I believe you.” Assurance is a beautiful thing. “Will you get the gate for me?”
