Fifty-One

FIFTY-ONE

Ten-year-old Jack in his backyard. An airplane carved a long, white streak through the orange sky. His senses were alive with the smells of barbecue and the apple tree.

He heard a scream. It echoed across the yard.

It came from inside his house, which towered above him, its mass a jagged silhouette against the sunset. The back door opened. He remembered the sound of it crashing against the wall. Kimba, the family cat, ran ahead of his father’s feet and scuttled under the stairs. His dad was a hulking, whiskered mammoth lurching and wheezing as he ran.

The screams belonged to a boy, although the wails were high-pitched. It made him laugh, despite the fire in his father’s eyes as he approached.

Jack felt the heaviness in his hand.

He looked down. The sky, the airplane, the house and his dad tilted away until he saw his shaking fingers, and what he held in his grasp.

Scissors.