Maybe I used to, but it’s long gone now. I’m simply too tired to deal with an argument and the negative consequences that will undoubtedly follow.
I’m too tired to do anything but exist.
And arguing has never made the world better.
“You could have at least tried to make yourself presentable before you came into public,” Aria adds, scowling as she eyes me from head to feet.
Half my long hair has slipped out of its one braid, and I’m hot and dusty from the scavenging and the walk back.
I know I don’t look good. I never do.
Ignoring the comment, I show her my basket topped with those bouncy balls. “I got some good stuff today.”
“Oh good. Those balls are popular. What else do you have in there?”
What happens next is mostly Aria’s fault. I’m convinced of that fact. Maybe I could have clung to the handle of the basket tighter, but she yanks the other side far too hard and without warning.
She pulls the basket right out of my hand.
It falls.
I grab for it and manage to snatch it back, but one side has already toppled open, spilling out all the balls.
They do what bouncy balls inevitably will. Theybounce wildly and roll everywhere. All over. Under tables and against people’s shoes and from one corner of the village square to the other.
Aria starts screeching at me, laying into me for my stupidity, my clumsiness, my incompetence. All the normal stuff.
I try to block out her voice as I run around and collect the spilled balls.
It wasn’t my fault, but everyone in the village is going to assume it was. A few kids are squealing with excitement as they pick up balls and bounce them as far as they’ll go. The butcher’s dog is barking with pure glee as he bounds around and tries to pick up one ball after another. Another dog, this one a fierce-looking stray, runs out from an alley to join in the hunt, joyfully bewildered by the unexpected abundance of treasure.
Old Henderson, the oldest person in town, is laughing his head off from his normal position on a bench outside the bake shop.
I might have laughed too had Aria not still been screaming at me, making it clear to everyone around that I’m the cause of this disaster. My cheeks are hotly flushed as I scramble around collecting balls. I have to crawl under tables and chase balls that the kids are still bouncing.
I’m attempting to coax the butcher’s dog to let me have those he’s hoarded between his paws when the butcher comes to retrieve the animal.
Then I spot a few more balls across the square, so I hurry after them.
Mason beats me to them, leaning over to pick them up. He’s already picked up five of them. He drops them gently into my basket when I get close enough.
“Thank you,” I mumble, even more embarrassed than ever by his sober expression and his assistance.
No one else has bothered to help me at all.
I catch a glimpse of yellow green in the alley, so I run toward it.
It’s the stray dog, lying on the ground with two balls between his front legs and another in his mouth as he pants happily around it with one of his triangular ears cocked back.
He’s got a big body, a blocky head, and a face that almost looks mean, but he doesn’t growl as I approach. His expression changes. I recognize it. Feel it.
It breaks my heart.
It’s exactly how any creature who has nothing feels when the little they’ve found is about to get taken away.
“Oh no,” I gurgle, ridiculously emotional. I can’t imagine the severity of my punishment if Lorraine finds out I gave up three balls, but I’ll have to take them away from this poor, battered animal. “I’m so sorry, buddy. I have to. Lorraine will?—”
I break off my irrational plea when I realize Mason has followed me.
