Too Late

Raccoon’s mom stood outside his bedroom and hollered at him to wake up. Then she barged in, tore the covers away and waited until he sat up.

“Get up,” she said, heading back to the kitchen.

He dressed and rubbed most of his hair flat, and went downstairs. The radio was tuned to the station just out of range, the silences filled with pops and crackles.

“You should’ve got up when I said. Now you don’t have time to have breakfast. Take an apple or something,” she said, chewing the last forkful of an egg. “Get going. You’ll be late.”


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