To a child all things rise. Mother rises in the morning when the sun rises. The moon rises and mom and baby go to sleep. Miranda would rise to feed him. The dead girls name was Miranda and she never rose today, and baby Mikey wondered why his sister never trickled in with the sun as she usually did with it thrilling through her saltwater hair like a bright comb.
He faintly recalls a damp kiss on his temple between alphabet dreams, but she never rose with him. He was so hungry now he’d cried and made duck noises and horse noises he’d learned from the toy in his broken bed next to Miranda’s empty one.
Real mother staggered in belated expecting that Miranda had fed baby Mikey.
Where the fuck is Miranda? Mom squawked too loud in her talon-voice, and baby Mikey flinched.
Baby Mikey made a…
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infesting your feed.
like a pleasant disease.