Cut a path across planks, past muddy furrows, pitted grass and cables coiling snake-like.
A pink cake on a purple plate and a stew of plastic spiders are what he serves me from his waist-high kitchen.
A pleading grown-up, a giggling child. The red clock on the microwave marking a wasted lesson.
There's a well of misery in her. From time to time, she peeks into it, maybe sticks her head part-way in (the echoes of 'not enough,' 'not enough' are stronger in there). But for the most part she ignores it, even though its emanations and stagnant contents affect much of what she does.
As a younger child gets read to, older ones hang around and listen in. The pleasure of hearing a story out loud, and sharing its delight with another person, doesn't have to fade.
A bewildered, apologetic face behind a windshield.
Their happy shrieks and laughter mix with the shimmer of the swimming pool.