Ernie sat with his back to the wall. Who is this woman? Who is this little girl? I think Mama hates them; I hate them. He shoved his hands into his pockets.
The sunlight came in through the window opposite him. I hate the sun. “I hate the sun!” He screamed, driving his fist through the glass.
His mother came running. “See? You’ve distressed him! Oh, Ernie! Stay calm!”
Terri’s hand flew to her mouth as she grasped her daughter’s hand.
Ernie frowned. His arm throbbed as he lay in the broken glass. “Mama,” he whispered. “Mama, I punched the sun. I was bad, I…punched the sun.”
“It’s okay, Daddy,” whispered little Frances.