Tipsy cattle, drunk off clover and maize, grazed under bubbling ink, their bells bursting with giggles. The pension, her walls adorned with sharpies and paint, pouted at them.
A boy bounced on the balls of his feet, knocking beside her eye. She hummed, and he yanked the window upwards, scowling like it flushed his goldfish, Jerry, down the drain. Wind kissed the tips of his sheet, hugging his hands and feet, as he sat on the ledge.
“Maël? Où est-ce que tu es allé?”
He heaved, pulling his knees to his chest. In the morning, he’ll have to disappear again.
