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Weekly Contest #363
Smitty was ten that summer, and Max was seven. The two of them walked to the Quick Stop on Route 9 almost every day in July, because their mother got tired of hearing them complain about being bored. Four blocks. They knew the way by heart — past the Coopers' dog that barked but never came off the porch, past the fire hydrant on the corner. Max held Smitty's hand at the one crossing that had traffic. Smitty had their father's dark hair, cut short for summer. Max had their mother's, lighter, almost sandy, and it never stayed out of his eyes f...
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