Just four hours prior, in the front yard of my mom's house, a St. Louis policeman snapped silver cuffs over Dad's wrists. In the back yard, the same cop pepper-sprayed Lexi, my mom's dog and then my mom. From the living room, I could see her dark hair blow wild in the wind. She was on all fours.
I gathered a few of James' toys in a clothes hamper: a translucent plastic case of Hot Wheels, a yellow tyrannosaurus rex with a green belly. That one used to be mine.
Someone, the wind, wailed against the windows. A social worker questioned Misty, and then me.
I folded pairs of tiny white briefs and rolled up little sock couplets.
The absence of Lexi's bark filled the house. Damn cops. She was a downtown stray; she only thought her family threatened.
I pulled a few cartoons down from the shelf and stowed them atop his shirts and pants.
When the basket was full, I carried it to the car. Dad's hands were free. I handed him the basket and returned to the house for my brother and sister. I carried James to the car, his arms around my neck, and Misty followed. The four of us left.
Blue lights flashed for half a block along the curb, but Lexi was nowhere to be found.
-Mike
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