The boy listed in his chair. His father straightened him, sewed the jacket sleeve tighter to the boy’s wrist then brushed dirt from the boy’s nose and placed a cloth napkin in his lap. Satisfied, he sat at the head of the table, his wife’s favorite dishes spread across the mahogany surface. He’d even lit candles. They hoped their gesture would make her stay. When her scream propelled him to his feet, he bumped the table and their son slumped over. “It’s okay,” he shouted. “I’ve revived our son.” He didn’t notice the fluid dripping from the boy’s vacant eye socket.
By Ryker Hayes