“Rock, scissors, paper, shoot!” His tiny hand forms a fist which I tenderly enclose within my own, wishing as I do that I’ll never have to let it go.

That dang pickup is still there, has been since I left work. Lane-changing when I lane-change, that’s how I know he’s tailing me.

I saw a couple heatedly arguing at the edge of the road in front of a tucked-away apartment complex, and then he pushed her into the road and moved back towards her.

After stumbling across the gangway at Frankfurt during a layover, I’m suddenly in a heart-racing haze at security, an officer observing my disoriented self, swabbing my belongings for “substances.”

“Twix can be a little difficult to handle at times, but you will do just fine. You are our little star, after all,” he said, fumbling with the bridle, the stale odor of alcohol on his breath.