The faint trail of exhaust drifted in the chilly morning atmosphere as Vanessa’s car disappeared around the corner.
The butter sizzled as it hit the hot iron skillet.
Noah sat at the kitchen table, his small boots dangling several inches above the linoleum floor. He pressed his green toy dinosaur tight against his chest, his small fingers wrapping around its plastic tail. The toy was missing its left eye, leaving a small, dark hole in the side of its green head where the glue had dried and failed.
I flipped the white bread with a metal spatula, watching the yellow cheese begin to soften at the corners. The kitchen was quiet, far too quiet for a Saturday morning that should have been spent sleeping in.
“Do you want some milk, Noah?” I asked, turning back toward the stove.
He did not answer, only nodding once without letting go of the plastic dinosaur.
I poured the milk into a small plastic cup and set it on the table. When I stood close to him, I heard a small, dry rattle at the very end of his breath. It was a raspy, whistling sound that did not belong in a five-year-old child’s chest.
