Page 53 of Kit
The trees swayed over us as the wind abruptly changed direction.
I stretched my hand out, palm up. “Come on, baby boy. Please come back with me where it’s warm and we can talk.
He lifted his eyelids, staring at my hand.
“Come with me. Please?”
He didn’t move.
“Don’t leave, Kit. You wouldn’t do that to me, would you?”
Cold gusts stole his voice as he spoke, but I thought I heard him say something like, “…never hurt you…”
Slowly, he stretched out his hand.
I closed my fingers around his chilled skin. Snow started to fall heavier as I rose and pulled him up with me. I got an arm around his shoulders. He was shivering.
Together, we walked up the porch steps and back into the warm house. I shut the door behind us and bustled him to the couch. The fire was burning again after so much tossing of logs. It made a friendly orange glow.
I crouched on my knees between Kit’s legs as he hunched over, my hands on his shoulders. I saw a brown burn through mark on his pants at one knee.
“Calm down, now, baby boy. You’re okay. You didn’t do anything bad.” I let out a short laugh. “The house is still standing.”
He sniffled three times, then looked at me. He whispered, “Daddy, I was so scared.”
I lifted my hand and cupped his damp cheek. “I know.”
“I’m so sorry.”
I grabbed a throw blanket from the back of the couch and draped it over his shoulders. Then I rocked forward into a hug.
“I know you’re very sorry. But it’s over with now. No damage. I’ll just wash the rug and we’ll be good as new.” I patted his back.
He tentatively rubbed one hand against my chest, his head bent under my chin.
When I pulled back, I rested my hand over his knee and the burnt fabric. “Did you burn yourself?”
He inhaled sharply, nodding once. “A little.”
I patted his thigh and stood. “Stay right here. I’m going to make it all better. But please, just stay.”
He looked up at me with big, round eyes.
“Don’t leave,” I insisted.
“Yes, Daddy.”
I practically ran to the downstairs bathroom where I knew I had some Neosporin and band aids. I brought them back in a hurry with a cold, wet cloth. I knelt again before my boy.
I pulled the material away from his skin and stuck my finger through the burn hole.
“You did some damage here.” I wiggled my finger.
“I didn’t feel it at first. I didn’t know until it burned.”
His pants were winter sweats, easy to roll up over the knee. When the flesh was revealed, I saw a bony kneecap and just above it a small, pink streak.
“Yep, you burned the skin. But just a little.” I dabbed it gently with the cloth.
