He slows down obediently, but he’s practically demolished the water. I’m still thirsty, but his scrapes don’t look good. I pour the remaining water on my hand, bit by bit, and clean the scrapes on his palms. He winces but doesn’t pull away. “Where did you come from?”
He looks around, confused.
“Where are your parents?”
“Dad said not to run away.” His voice is sweet and innocent, and I can’t help but smile.
“Did you run away?”
“No.” He shakes his head hard. “I was trying to hunt the squirrel.”
Hunt. That’s a strange word for a four-year-old. Most kids would say catch.
I file that away for later.
“Is your house nearby?”
“No.”
“Where did your dad leave you?”
“In the park. He got a call and told me to stay. But there was a squirrel.” He looks at me with wide eyes as if I should understand why he had to chase after the squirrel.
I sigh internally.
What kind of parent loses track of their kid long enough for him to end up three miles into the woods?
“The part with the swings?”
He nods.
No wonder he’s filthy. He wandered off while his father was on the phone and just kept going.
“Come on.” I stand and hold out my hand. “Let’s go find your dad.”
He takes it without hesitation. His fingers are cold despite the heat.
As we walk, I ask, “So what’s your name?”
“Ethan.” He gives me a bright smile.
“Well, hello, Ethan. My name’s Miranda. How old are you?”
He looks down at the hand I’m not holding and lifts four fingers to show me.
“So you’re four?” I smile down at him.
He nods enthusiastically. “I’m big.”
Even though I slow to match his pace, he’s beginning to look tired, so I ask, “Do you want me to carry you?”
The little scamp doesn’t hesitate, holding out his arms. He’s adorable. I scoop him up and let him settle on my back. As we reach the park, his stomach rumbles.
It’s very hard not to laugh.
“Are you hungry?”
“Mm-hm.” His arms tighten around my neck.
