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He had a backpack that was bigger than he was. Oscar the Grouch stared out at him with big plastic eyes, unblinking and judgmental. He hugged his arms to his chest compulsively, as if cold, but the distant spire of the bank's blinking neon flashed an undaunted 99 degrees at the world.

His short, pale legs kicked in the air, dangling from the edge of the bench. Just down the sidewalk, a few bored teenagers were cracking eggs on the sidewalk. Sunlight glinted on the tallest one's pointed, bright red mohawk. He ignored them.

The velcro on his sandals was wearing thin. They slid around his feet, big and bulky, out of time with the shaking of his legs.

"MICHAEL!"

He looked up. The car was still several blocks away, but the voice was unmistakable. His heart seemed to stop, then began thudding rapidly. His short, chubby fingers gripped Oscar's handle, and he slid off the bench, ignoring the searing heat from the bars on the back of his legs, unprotected by his khaki shorts. He stomped away from the car, the cowlick in the back of his hair waving as his small feet thudded onto the sidewalk.

The older boy with the red mowhawk looked up, distracted from his culinary experiments. "Hiya, Mr. Peterham!" he shouted. The girls with him giggled and shoved at his shoulder, shushing him, still poking the egg on the sidewalk with forks,

Mr. Peterham left his car behind, sauntering over to the group. "Afternoon, all," he said cheerily, tipping his dark sunglasses to them and flashing a remarkably white smile. The girls giggled again. His tan face glistened with sweat, but his legs were pale beneath his long khaki shorts. "Have you seen Michael today?"

Mohawk boy gestured with his red gelled tips. "Thattaway, Mr. Peterham," he replied cheerfully.

"Thank you, son," Mr. Peterham replied. Giving him a hearty slap on the back, he retreated to his air conditioned Mercedes. Mowhawk boy rubbed his shoulder and scowled after the older man.

Michael's arms sagged with the weight of the too-big backpack. He stopped at the iron gate of the park, eyeing the greenery behind it. A sudden breeze rushed down the sidewalk, rattling the chain wrapped through the padlock around the gate's lock.

A moment later, the abandoned Oscar stared up emptily at the squeaking chain and the perfect blue sky beyond. The Mercedes slowed and stopped before the gate; Mr. Peterham stepped out, and picked up the abandoned bag. "Damn," he said softly. "Where are you, Michael?"

"MICHAEL!"

No one answered. This time, not even the bored, egg-frying teenagers looked up. The heat settled, and the Mercedes drove on.




To be continued?