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Weekly Contest #288
Her boots entered the room first. Heavy-soled and rain-soaked, they struck the floor, cutting through a haze of cigarette smoke and the drone of his mother’s voice. He was crouched beneath the dining table, knees to his chest, tracing the grooves in the linoleum with a bitten fingernail. “Where’s the boy?” The voice was steady, not loud, but it carried a weight that made his mother flinch. She sat on the couch, one leg tucked under her, a cigarette in one hand, her free fingers drumming nervously against the armrest. “He’s around,” she...
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