I ran and hid in the lush round evergreen on the corner before the moon came and the mothers called us in. I squeezed inside its shelter, an advantage of being small, and the bush scratched my arms with its grasp. I didn’t care. From here, I could see Matt crouched behind a car and Mary moving tree to tree. Mostly my eyes followed David, pacing in front of the rusty red Folgers can in the middle of the street. I waited, giddy but still, in silent worship of Midwest summers and velvet dusks, almost ready for the mad dash.
Amy Bohlman is a Minnesota-based writer in love with the short form. Find Amy at www.ashortgirl.com and on Instagram @ashortgirlwrites.