Margie’s boy sits in the front yard, pulling up fistfuls of grass and plainly sulking. Surrounding him, the metal frame of a trampoline hunkers in the dirt, the fabric long since gone. 
Margie’s in the front seat of the car, curbside, glaring. Her boy stares through her and into the vacant passenger seat. His eyes are a milky blue, one always trailing behind the other and rolling reluctantly into place. He pulls out another clump of grass and shakes it, letting the roots dust his jeans. Margie turns her face away, but she can still feel his aimless stare.
