A Question In The Summer Heat
The boy pressed a single silver coin against the scratched wooden countertop. Outside, the midday heat rose off the asphalt in waves, but inside the small convenience store, he stood completely still, staring up at the shopkeeper.
“Do you have heating pads?” the boy asked, his voice barely louder than the hum of the drink coolers. “The ones you stick on?”
The clerk paused with a cardboard box in his hands. His brow furrowed as he leaned over the counter, scanning the child’s short sleeves and sandals. He told the boy that thermal patches had been shipped back to the warehouse months ago, back in April. He slid a cold bottle of water toward the child, offering it for free, but the boy shook his head, pulled his hands into his pockets, and stepped back out through the glass doors.
On the sidewalk, an older neighbor waved from an ice cream truck, holding out an orange popsicle. The boy walked past her outstretched hand, keeping his gaze locked on the pavement ahead as the dry desert wind whipped past.
Searching The Pharmacy Shelves
His sandals slapped against the linoleum floor of the local pharmacy on Seventh Street. Sweat dampened his collar as he gripped the edge of the checkout counter and caught his breath.
The clerk behind the register lowered her scanner. When the boy repeated his request for heating pads, she tilted her head, reminding him that the outside temperature had climbed past one hundred degrees. Yet when she saw his hands twisting the hem of his cotton shirt, she pointed toward the lower shelf where cardboard return boxes sat taped shut.
The boy dropped to his knees, pulling open the cardboard flaps. Among stacks of winter hats and wool socks, his fingers gripped a single silver foil packet. A wide grin broke across his face as he clutched the square pouch against his ribs.
At the register, the total rang up to two dollars and ninety-nine cents. The boy emptied his pocket, counting quarters, nickels, and dimes across the counter. He stopped when the pile ran dry. The cashier spread the coins with her fingertip and softly told him he was a dollar short.
The boy’s shoulders stiffened, his fingers locking onto the foil packet. He insisted that he needed it. Seeing his grip tighten, the cashier pulled a brown leather wallet from her pocket, slid a dollar bill into the drawer, and handed him the paper sack.
An Unspoken Reason
The front screen door banged open as the boy ran into his grandmother’s living room. His grandmother hung up the telephone, her shoulders tense and her face flushed with worry after searching the neighborhood in the hundred-and-five-degree sun.
She demanded the brown paper bag from his hands. When she opened the top and pulled out the metallic foil packet, her voice rose with disbelief. She asked why anyone would search for a heat patch in the middle of summer, warning him that using it could make him pass out.
The boy lowered his chin and gathered the fabric over his chest with both hands. He spoke quietly into the room. He explained that ever since his mother had passed away, nobody held him in the dark, and every night he felt freezing cold.
His grandmother stopped speaking. Her hands dropped to her sides, and she sank to her knees in front of him. She pulled him against her apron, wrapping both arms around his back, and promised they would only place the patch on him at night while she stayed by his side.
A Peaceful Night
That evening, the boy lay flat beneath his bedsheet with the white patch pressed against his chest. His grandmother pushed the bedroom door open, checking to see if he was warm.
The boy smiled up from his pillow, closed his eyes, and drifted to sleep. The grandmother pulled the floral blanket up over his shoulder, rested her hand gently against his arm, and sat beside the bed in the glow of the bedside lamp.
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