the little boy who cried wolf.

the apartment has that early feel to it… dark light slips through the blinds. the rising sun is shadowed by heavy rain clouds. the rain hasn’t stopped since thursday. there is a gentle breeze but the air is dense and dewy.

the alarm hasn’t gone off but he gets out of bed quickly, puts on his robe and leaves the room. not sure if this is another sleep walking incident i give him a few minutes and go to inspect. he is sitting comfortably in the middle of the couch watching a nearly silent television.

“what are you doing?” i ask, followed by a, “are you awake?”

he is one hundred percent wide awake.

“the british open is on live.” he says with a little kid grin that makes you think he is doing something wrong.

i go back to bed while he enjoys his live coverage of guys wielding nearly deadly weapons. three victims so far in this tournament. but apparently a golf ball to the head = an autographed glove. i guess the spectators hope for a uber famous ball to come their way!

fast forward a few hours. we are sitting in church. the first speaker hasn’t even finished. wearing that same mischievous grin he says, no, wines, “my stomach is hurting, i think i might be sick… maybe i need to go home early.”

i have caught him in his trap. but the imagined wolves aren’t coming to get him, and he is resigned to sit through 2 1/2 more hours of church.

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