Georgie stands outside the house rubbing his arms in fear that they would become an early supper to the masses of mosquitoes.
The door opened, light piercing the dusk eviscerating any thoughts that it was nearing eight in the evening.
“George?â€? His Mom questioned groggily.
“Hey Ma, were you sleeping?â€? He questioned earnestly, moving his body around his roadblock of a mother.
“George we were just fixing to rest for the evening-â€?
“C’mon Ma, its only eight- your acting twice your age!â€? His mother resignedly shuts the door her weary eyes taking in her son’s appearance.
“George you look like you wrestled a pig.â€?
That he did, with cemented dirt encasing his boots, chipping slowly over the linoleum of the entryway. His shirt was twisted, collar ripped with dirty nails and scratches over his hand.
“It’s Georgie,â€?
“FINE Georgie, just take those things off before you dirty up my hallway.â€?
“You got any food left over from dinner?â€?
“Yeah, some chickens in the fridgeâ€?