We ran to our fort in the woods that was little more than a rut in the ground. Our imaginations made it something more, though, and it suited us fine.
My baby brother in the pine needles. He spoke to me, but I hadn’t heard, distracted by birds.
“What was that?” I asked.
“I hope he never comes back.”
I imagined I could hear a bird expanding its ribcage in song. I took my brother’s hand while he wept.
We ran home.
Dad’s truck wasn’t in the driveway.
Thankful, we ran some more. Our chests extended, vibrating, in perfect harmony.