Stroll

Hare’s uncle stood up from the table he’d been sat at immobile all morning and declared that the day was much too beautiful to waste in a dimly lit dining room, surrounded by all his dead relative’s platters, china and silverware.

“I’m going for a walk. Have the world roll beneath my feet,” he said. “Let your mother know.”

She’d gone off to work. After driving all night to bring his uncle back from somewhere she only whispered if Hare was around. Years later, lying awake, Hare would wonder if he shouldn’t have gone after him instead of watching cartoons.

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