No one knows

Out on Ryan Road, three miles from the old church that was condemned and falling down, there is a young boy playing basketball in his family’s gravel driveway. The dusty, orange ball is flat and worn and the boy has to bounce it extra hard to make sure it comes back up and doesn’t roll away into the grass. He’s out there again because his mother is crying in the kitchen and has asked him to play outside. He is a good kid, listens to his parents and his teachers, never argues or talks back. So he is outside, just waiting until his mother calls from the front door to say that it is time to come inside and wash up for dinner. Until then, he will shoot at the rusty hoop and make believe that he is Michael Jordan and that the game is on the line. Headlights come up behind him, turning off of the road. He turns around and moves out of the way so that his father can park in the garage. The gravel crunches underneath the weight of his father’s car as it slows. His father parks and gets out of the car. He glances quickly at his son as he heads inside. The boy waits. Maybe tonight he’ll get to come in before the sun sets and it’s too dark to play; too dark to pretend.