His cheeks burned as the line of boys dwindled. In the outfield, daydreams of ninja skills brought a grin. The baseball fell at his feet.
In the book, tucked so to hold a page, a postcard bought written never sent to anyone, least of all the person the words meant to address.
Plaster never mends as neatly as it implodes. Another house with his scar of childhood. Another memory peeling at its poorly spackled edges.