If only there was not cause, thought the man, for the boy to accompany him here. To this place of commerce. But as the woman reminded him two hours prior, when she dropped off the boy in her Chevy Silverado, it was his weekend.
The man grasped the boy’s hand tightly as they made their way across the asphalt expanse of the parking lot. Their breath spiraled from their lips like plumes of smoke. Ghosts of a burned encampment. The frost had come early this year.
Mind your haste, said the man. He felt the boy’s hand quivering within his own like a hare on the verge of bolting into the brush. The man did not wish to crush the spirit of the boy. But the Crossing was treacherous.
They stopped at the bonewhite lattice of the crosswalk, vigilant for the halogen eyes of oncoming vehicles.
Where do we look?
Both ways, said the boy.
Which ways?
Right and left.
Good, said the man. Right and left. Never back. No good comes of that.