Page 38 of The Scars We Heal

“No!” she whined, tucking her chocolatey hands closer to her body.

“If you don’t get the frosting off your hands, you might get it on your clothes and then they’ll be dirty.” I attempted to reason with her, which was honestly how I thought reasoning with a tiny dictator or a cult member would be like.

“No, I don’t wanna!” she screeched when I reached for her hand.

I sighed as she did exactly what I was afraid of and wiped her hands on the front of her shirt, smearing sticky, brown frosting all over herself.

“Do you want to change your shirt and wash your hands now?” I asked, bracing myself for a battle.

“Can I put on my Booey shirt?”

Booey as in Bluey.

“Yeah, I think that’s a great idea, bug.” I led her back to her bedroom, digging through her closet for the Bluey shirt she was talking about. “Where’s it at?” I asked, but was met with silence.

I whipped my head around, but the kid was gone.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“Whit!” I called for her, hearing a faint giggle down the hallway. It wasn’t hard to catch up to her, but I still moved as quickly as I could, lest I find her with a kitchen knife like a tiny, psychopathic serial killer.

She’d barely made it out to the living room when I got to her, picking her up from behind and carrying her back to her room, despite her nearly kicking me in the balls.

“Where’s your shirt?” I asked, setting her down on the bed and closing the door, turning the lock so she couldn’t make an escape.

A manic laugh bubbled out of her.

“You don’t have a Bluey shirt, do you?”

“Nope!” She rolled over on the bed, laughing her heart out.

“Can we change your shirt into something else, though? You have chocolate all over it.”

“Only if it’s a Booey shirt.”

I closed my eyes, inhaling a long breath through my nose to suppress a groan. “If you change your shirt, we can go on an adventure outside, how about that? Do you want to go on a scavenger hunt?”

“Ooh, scavenger hunt! Yes, yes, yes!” She nodded enthusiastically.

“Okay, can I wipe your hands off, too?” I was probably going to get in trouble for what I offered her next, but I added, “If you let me clean off your hands, I’ll give you another slice of cake later.”

“Cake!”

“Yep. Cake,” I sighed, knowing I would regret my decision.

Ten minutes later—I never realized how long it took to dress a child—Whitley was in a clean shirt with clean hands, and we headed outside to explore the yard.

The weather was pleasant, slight cloud cover to provide shade from the harsh sun and a gentle breeze to cool the air down a bit. I wasn’t sure what I would have suggested if it had been raining. Changing a shirt just to play in the mud seemed a bit like a contradiction.

“Scawager hunt!” she cheered as she stomped out onto the grass, waving her arms around.

“Go find me a…” I paused, thinking of something a kid could search for. “A stick!”

“Okay! Stick. Stick. Stick,” she repeated before running off toward the trees and bushes on the backside of my house.

“Don’t go too far, though! Stay where I can see you!”

“’Kay!”