The kitchen window is cracked, the one that looks out on the small backyard where the child spends hours.
“She’s going to think it was me. Maybe she won’t let me be out here again.”
The girl turns away from it, worried. Her eyes search the mid-space between fence and cloud.
Instinctively, she cups the wooden spool inside her pocket so no one will notice. There’s never anyone around — it’s just habit, this downplaying of her natural tendencies.
“I got you,” she whispers.
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