It’s funny how little things change who we are. Like a night spent waiting on a bench, or running in the park, or retelling a story by heart on a bus in the pouring rain. Looking back, it’s hard to imagine a time before fourth grade me.
/I’m not certain how long we’ve been sitting here but the bench is cold and it’s dark now. Dad is still talking too loud on his phone as fewer and fewer people come bustling out of the train station, the only thing in sight aside from trees and cool stone from our bench. Maddy plays Frogger on my little flip phone, a rare gift to keep her from her complaining because I know if I hear her voice any more I’ll surely burst. Every word is negative, another thing I’m sure I have to keep in check. Dad keeps flashing glances at the game in Maddy’s hands but before he says anything I reach over and hold the slim arrow until no music remains.
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