Small footprints mar the layers of dust.
He sits in the corner of the restaurant, eyes squeezed tight to make a wish.
The door opens. A gust of wind extinguishes the candle and he pushes the tiny cake into his mouth. Curdled icing coats his chin. The gun is heavy, so different than the Nerf version he received on that last birthday, before the world fell apart.
He fires only once. The creature crumples to the floor.
If the pack is here, he must distance himself before nightfall. Fingernails scrape the window.
He grabs his blood-stained Spider-Man backpack and runs.