Pat stepped outside and saw a figure yanking up handfuls of rushes from the marsh garden.
“Those’re mine, you know.”
The figure whirled. “I’m hungry, okay?”
“How about some real food?”
They walked to the house. The supper smells greeted them at the door like a spouse’s kiss.
They ate in silence, Shannon wolfing down the food.
“Do you have a place to stay?” Pat asked.
“You can stay here.”
“You got an extra bed?”
“I’ll take the floor.”
Shannon’s face was night sky of distrust, but still a tiny star of hope shone through.
Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for choosing my picture for this week’s Friday Fictioneers. This was taken in Jeonju, South Korea. Pungnammun, the historic south gate of the city is in the background.
He nodded when I pointed to the gate and proffered my camera. I walked towards it . . . and turned to see him take off running.
He picked the wrong tourist.
I screamed like a berserker and tore after him. He was almost at the road, a patch of wet cement between us.
That Nikon was two weeks old.
I made a flying leap and grabbed his ankle, just before crashing into wet goo. He flailed frantically but I death-gripped him ten minutes til the cops came.
We made the evening news.
I hear they put up a statue to commemorate it.