Ten minutes later the kid came out trailing his mother. She hurried out the door. He stuck out his tongue at me. Loser, I thought, until I saw the white pill sitting on his pink tongue. He coughed into his hand, then mouthed the word remember, tapping his cast, and tossed the pill into the trash can.
I watched him leave.

He wasn’t glossy. He wasn’t dreary, either. He was something else.

He was all there.

Auteur: Angie Smibert