The Answer Box By C. Morgan Hunt achel Kersey took two deep drags from her Salem menthol and drove toward the school. As she approached the ball field, she spotted three boys flanking her 10-year-old son. His R sweatshirt was streaked with mud. The tallest boy spat on Harry’s sneakers. Rachel honked her horn and the boys scattered. Harry dropped his lunch box on the car floor as he slid in next to her. She lit another Salem and merged into traffic. “Tough day?” He stared at her as he sometimes did — a disconcerting, studious stare, as though she were a snowflake that would soon melt and it was up to him to memorize her every angle and pattern. She stopped for a red light on East Main and returned his gaze. The soft dip between upper lip and nose — his philtrum, the doctor had called it — ran noticeably deep. His sandy hair grew tight and dense like antler velvet. She’d have his ears pinned if she could ever afford it. His smile, rare as an eclipse since infancy, could warm the dark side of the moon.
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