“I wish we could stay here,” Joey sighed. He swung his feet as he leaned back on the bench.
“We can’t,” his older brother, Mark told him. “We have to be careful. They must be missing us at the foster home. We have to make sure no one recognizes us and takes us back.”
“I never want to go back there. It’s horrid and they want to separate us.”
“Don’t worry, Joey. They won’t find us. I’ll make sure of it. And we will always be together.”
Mark kept his promise to Joey, right up to the cold afternoon when Police Constable Harris found him on the grated vent cradling a gravely ill Joey. He rushed them to hospital where Joey died. He had tuberculosis.
Mark stood now at his grave. “One of these days we will be together again.”
Constable Harris joined him and putting his hand on his shoulder, he said, “Come, son, let’s go home.”
Mark looked up at him. “Could we go to the park first?”
This was written in response to the flash fiction challenge. For more information visit Here.
To read other stories based on this week’s prompt, visit Here.