“Amy! Dinnertime! C’mon home!”
“Coming, Mom!” Amy yelled from the dense bushes in the park’s far corner.
“Gotta go. See you tomorrow. We’re having lasagna. I’ll bring you some in the morning.”
“You don’t have to do that,” Tommy answered. “But thank you. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
Amy tossed in bed that night, worried about Tommy all alone in the corner park across the street. No one but she knew he was there. Four days ago he ran away from the foster family he’d been living with for the past year and no one had reported him missing. It was summer so the school wasn’t aware, and other than Amy he didn’t have any friends. He was quiet and kept to himself, learning at an early age that it was the best way to survive the foster system.
She didn’t know how she was going to decide. The relationships had started due to her best friend’s push to get her on a dating website.
Charlie’s trained eyes peered through the binoculars from his vantage point at the top of the playground castle. He had a full view of the park and the turret shielded him from view of onlookers. He jotted notes in a little pad with a pencil, kept tucked in his suit pocket.
We grew up sailing San Francisco Bay, indisputably the best sailing in the world and one we generally take for granted. On a typical day on the water we’ll motor up the estuary (which we fondly refer to as the “Alameda Riviera”) raising sails just beyond the Port of Oakland. We know all the stories associated with the local landmarks such as President Roosevelt’s refurbished USS Potomac and Jack London Square, the old Navy Base and the various Coast Guard stations.
Laura stepped off the bus and headed towards home. If you could call it that. An illegally converted garage wasn’t much of a home. She shared the single bathroom with three others and had to keep her food in a cooler so it wouldn’t be stolen from the community kitchen. It was all she could afford but was far better than the house she used to live in with her alcoholic husband.
Amy saw the poster tacked to the phone pole at the bus stop.
Every weekday morning Mama would walk us to school and chat on the schoolyard with the other mothers, discussing their supper menus and any juicy news they had heard since the day before. We lived in a small town where walls were thin and lips were loose. Today’s hot topic was the recent sale of the old Dorst home to a couple from out of town.
Her head hit the shower door hard and she slumped onto the cold tile floor. He slammed the door behind him with a bang without looking at her or saying a word. Enough had already been said. Blood dripped down her cheek and she licked the droplet as it reached the corner of her lips. Warm and metallic tasting.
Lisa was a bartender at a local club and always terrified that she’d be hit by a drunk driver on her way home after closing up at 2 am. What she didn’t account for was nodding off at the wheel, blowing through a red light and being broadsided by a produce truck on its way to market.
Vivo O Sonho 