We spend the summer resenting each other. His parents hired me to teach him English and follow the dust clouds he kicks up on the road to the beach. We sit on the veranda in the citric glow of sunset. There’s a cry from the yard.
We wade through waist-high weeds, then crouch to watch kittens blindly sniffing the air. But we leave them, thinking of the fox kit his father drowned in the laundry’s cast-iron sink.
He cries until dawn creeps in; then I hold him as he sleeps. Outside a cat slinks past, a mouse caught in its jaws.