The two-hour distance between his residence and his real home feel like a chasm that can’t be bridged
I’m grocery shopping when an object hurtles past, emitting a whooping war cry.
My stomach drops. No.
I’m scared to look. I’m deeply curious, but well aware that I’m about to rip the bandage off a still-healing wound.
Within seconds, the object of my trepidation streaks past my field of vision again, and then takes off in the opposite direction. Lather, rinse, repeat.
It’s not an it. It’s a he, about nine years old. Curly ginger peyos peek out of his hood. He’s running up and down the aisles, flapping his arms, whooping happily, taking no notice of other shoppers.
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