I was walking through Walgreens when I first heard the voice coming from the next aisle, and I didn’t like it. It was hoarse and demanding, and every sentence seemed like it was meant as a punishment or an insult to whoever had to listen. But when I turned the corner I was surprised to see that the voice belonged to a little boy. He couldn’t have been more than nine or ten years old, but there was something in his manner that made him seem much older, like a tiny, brutish adult. Maybe it was the trenchcoat he was wearing, a couple of sizes too large and almost dragging on the floor. Or maybe it was the way he was bossing his father around.
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His father had brown, thinning hair and a sorrowful face. He seemed exhausted, following the kid around with dull, shuffling steps.
“What does it look like I’m doing?” the kid responded in a harsh tone.
“What do you think I’m going to do with it, I’m going to draw pictures.”
“That’s not true.”
He opened his eyes wide, studying her for a few seconds, then blinked and leaned back. Holding an imaginary notebook in one hand he began sketching jagged violent lines in the air in front of him. He cocked his head to one side, holding up his small thumb and sticking his tongue out. He daintily erased a few invisible lines, then furiously added dozens more. It looked like he was drawing barbed wire in front of himself.
