He sat with his back flush against the wall, taking shaking breaths. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. He ran his fingers through his hair, tugging at the roots, nails raking against his scalp until he felt something warm and wet trickle down his temple.

Unlock the window. Lock the window.

“Did you eat a peach before supper?” Momma would ask, ladle in one hand, her other hand on her hip.
“No, ma’am” I would lie, peach juice still sticky on my lips and skin stuck between my teeth. I would bury the pits in the backyard, hoping to grow a peach tree of our very own.
“Hey. What are you thinking about?” He pulls away and presses the palm of his hand to my cheek. It isn’t peach juice on his chin.

Jim didn’t bother correcting the nurse. Anthony wasn’t his name, not really. His father had simply wanted a legacy. His damned legacy. Not that he had anything to pass down. His father was a drunken bastard who never did anything but talk about his glory days in the war or drink with his old war buddies. “I fought Nazis! I saved this country!” His father would scream at him on nights he made the mistake of being out of his room. “What are you doing with your life? Drawing? Pathetic. You fucking nancy. No son of mine-“ and he’d go on and on.

Squish.
“See? Now there’s two worms! That’s probably how more worms happen.” I looked up at Lindsey, her face slack and staring at the two wiggling halves of worm in my hands. “That’s probably how we happened, too. In Mom’s belly?”
I waited for her to tell me how smart I was. Instead, she ran back the way we came.
“Lindsey, wait! Wait UP! I’m not as fast as you!”