Even in the flickering orange firelight, the boy’s face drooped with the gloom of a rainy Monday morning.
Hank needed to talk to his grandson about something important, but that could wait a bit.
“What’s the matter, boy?” the old man asked. “Looks like someone ate your very last cookie.”
Willie frowned harder. “They did, Grandpa.”
Hank sighed. “Those boys at school again?”
Willie nodded. “Why do they hate me so much?”
Hank shuffled his feet in the dirt and adjusted his wide-brimmed hat. He stared into the fire.
“I think it’s just your imagination, boy.”
“No, Grandpa!” the boy protested. “They really are bullies. And they really did steal my cookie at lunch!”
Hank nodded. “I know, Willie. But what I mean is, I think they’re just jealous of your imagination.”
Willie hissed out a breath, dismissing the idea. “That’s silly, Grandpa.”
“No, really, boy.” Hank’s scalp was tingling. “Why, remember that time you told everyone I was an alien?”
The old man’s voice was flat.
“Well, yeah, but …”
“That was quite a story.” Hank leveled his gaze at his grandson. “I mean, you just made that up right out of the blue … right?”
He never should have let the boy watch him shave. You never can trust what mirrors are showing to the world.
Willie squirmed under the weight of his grandfather’s stare. “Right,” the boy said quietly, dropping his eyes to the fire.
A shooting star erupted from the prairie horizon. Hank put his hand on his hat again, trying to hold it in place. Fireballs always brought the antennae to life.
It had been that way since he was about Willie’s age, by the light of a falling star.
“Someday soon, Willie, I don’t think you’ll have to worry about bullies ever again.”