“Come one Dewey,” Mrs. Sherwood said, “We’re going home.” Her long sharp fingernails scraped against his cheek as she shoved him towards the floor.
Dewey grabbed at his cheek and he choked back the searing pain in his throat of tears. please don’t let them come. please don’t let them come
“Dewey! NOW !” He followed his mother out of the store and quickly trotted across the snow streaken road to the car.
He fumbled with the keys and threw open the door, just as Mrs. S reached the door. As he was demanded of calling her, he was not worthy of the maturity it took to adress one such as her with the eloquince of proper respect. As so she put it.
He half ducked, half ran around the back of the car as if hiding from her view. He stared back at the snow as a small drop landed above the snow. He slid into the back seat and wiped away the smear on his cheek with the back of his glove.