These Dreams of You

~ ~ ~

Parker says, “I don’t have anything to write it on.”

“Write it on the palm of your hand,” says Zan, holding up his own hand.

“My hand still hurts. From when you crushed it,” Parker says.

The father takes a deep breath. “A taxi was about to run into you. Is it really going to hurt your hand to write on it?”

“Yes.”

“Write on your other hand.”

“Then I have to use the hand that hurts to write. Besides I’m right-handed,” though he has to stop and think, as he always does, which hand is right and which is left.

“I’ll write it.”

Parker says, “We don’t need to.”

Zan says, “Just in case.”

“In case what?”

“I don’t know. In case. . something. . ”

“What?”

“Something happens.”

“What’s going to happen?”

“We get separated or something.”

“Why would we get separated?” the boy’s voice rises.

“We won’t get separated,” the father assures him.

“Then I don’t need to write it,” Parker declares and turns back to the window.