It smells bad every day, but today the boys in the back made it worse.
I can’t tell, but it smells just like dad when he comes back from standing behind the shed. It burns my nose and my throat when he walks by.
Mom hates when he smells like that.
I swing my feet, writing my name in the fog on the window. The bus goes over bumps and makes my writing messy. I wipe all the broken letters away and wait for it to fog up again.
A boy comes up the center aisle and sits across from me. He’s a lot older than me and he’s looking at me like my Dad does. He’s looking at me like there’s something evil in his brain. Continue reading Fog baby→