No one argued. The three uninjured boys scrambled to haul Trent and the breathless scrawny kid to their feet. Trent’s wrist was swelling rapidly, cradled tightly against his chest. They didn't look back as they dragged their dirt bike up the hill, their bravado entirely evaporated.
Agrippa exhaled slowly, feeling the adrenaline recede and the familiar, dull ache in his lower back return with a vengeance. He turned toward the sandbox.
Larry was sitting perfectly still, his small hands clutching the yellow plastic dump truck. He hadn't cried. He just watched his father with wide, unblinking eyes.
"Time to go, Larry," Agrippa said softly, his voice returning to its normal, tired rumble. He bent down, scooped up the boy in one arm and the toy truck in the other. In the distance, the faint wail of a police siren began to weave through the evening air. The mothers must have called. Agrippa didn't want to be there to answer questions. They melted into the shadows of the approaching dusk.
The small, two-bedroom apartment smelled of pine resin and old coffee. Agrippa sat at the cramped kitchen table, a bag of frozen peas pressed against his knuckles. It was a preventative measure; his hands hadn't hurt this much in years, but he knew how arthritis loved to exploit old injuries.