Cutting Corners

I couldn’t think of an escape so I ended up heading home slowly. When I entered the front door, I could tell Dad was pissed as he yelled for me. I walked into the kitchen where he was standing with his back to me.

“What the hell did you tell them?!â€? he screamed. He turned slowly, big baggie of pot in one hand, a cooking pot in the other. “What did you tell the police?!â€?

“Nothing I swear!â€? I screamed back at him. “Why don’t you put that down.â€? I added softly, flinching.

“Ok.â€? He threw it in my direction and I ducked quickly as the metal pot struck the wall close to my head. Thank God. Not this time.

But if only I had known someone was watching us. It was just like all the other places we’d been to. Someone would catch onto what was happening.

“I’m excepting someone for business. Run along now.â€?

My dad ran a strick pot business, a place where cutting corners could mean anything. He looked pissed so apparently, a corner had been cut or a secret spilled.

And I didn’t want to know this time.

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