**This is a short something I wrote tonight for my sweet cousin Sam, who is sick and away from home this holiday season.**
“Fever.”
The little girl giggled, her pigtails flopping under the streetlamp. She'd never met such a funny person, it pleased her fancy and she stepped closer.
“Your name is Fever?”
The old ragamuffin nodded, coughing violently. His coughing frightened her and she stepped back again. He asked her name with a painful moan. She could barely understand him.
“Sweet. My name is Sweet. That's what my mother calls me, anyway.”
Fever coughed again, or maybe he laughed. He pushed himself up and leaned back harder against the brick wall. His hands were dirty and wrapped in rags; they gripped the bricks callously. He couldn't stand, and slumped back down onto the sidewalk with a gargled sigh.
“So, Sweet. What are you doing for Christmas?”
Sweet scuffed her feet in thought. She bit her lip and squinted her right eye. She decided out lout that she'd open presents that morning and then spend the rest of the day eating treats and playing with her new toys. Her hope was for a new pink dress too, so she would wear that as well. Fever seemed to approve of this plan and nodded slowly.
“What will you do?” she asked him.
He opened his mouth to answer but got caught up in hacking instead. He chewed on spittle and wiped his chin with a tattered scarf. The girl took another step back, leaving the comfort of the warm streetlamp. His coughing frightened her, but she pitied him too. She reworded her question.
“Do you have anywhere to go?”
He shook his head, looking down with shame.
“Well,” she said sheepishly. She wanted to invite him to her house, but it didn't settle well with her. She knew her parents wouldn't approve. What could she do to help? What could she say? Be civil, answer like anyone else does. How do people respond to the homeless? She thought back to times with her parents, what they would say to a passing ruffian. Finally she came to it. She bowed slightly while taking another step back. Fever couldn't even see her now, but he heard her small, apologetic voice.
“I'm sorry, Fever. I wish I could help, but merry Christmas. You'll be on my mind.”
Books on Sale
