At the end of the day, outside of a nursery school, a young boy wanders away from his teachers and classmates and buries himself beneath a mound of leaves that have accumulated in the circular driveway. When cars begin to arrive to pick up the other kids, he lays flat on his back with and holds his breath as they pass over him, over his fort of leaves, tires on either side.
Ten, twenty, thirty years from now, the boy will dream of the sensation: a claustrophiliac rush, the rumbling of engines overhead, the smell of the oil, the heat of the metal so close to his body. He remembers feeling safely enveloped, every time, in the cocoon of soft crunchy feathers.
He hears his teacher calling his name, and other voices. People are looking for him.
He pops up and out from under the pile. “Hi,” he calls out, laughing, and sees that there are not many of his classmates left. It’s just his teacher, and now a couple of other teachers, and three or four other children standing in front of the school. His teacher’s face goes white and she and her colleagues run to him and grab him and pull him roughly by his arms.
They’re angry, shouting, and he doesn’t know why. There’s chaos and then worry and soft talking before his mother arrives and drives him home.
Could this really have happened?
He will be wondering for the rest of his life.
(Previously.)
