Glee and humidity filled the air around the swimming hole. The latter made Todd’s white T cling to his chest. The former gave his heart a pinch.

“Git in the water, Pistol,” cheered his cousin, using Todd’s familiar name rather than his Christian one. Much hooting and hollering followed, along with resounding splashes as three young bodies collided with cooling water.

Todd’s finger traced the scar at his temple, a nondescript swath of pink on a face tanned by a Summer slowly stretching towards Fall. His skin crawled at the recollection of his mother’s clinging hands, slippery and half pruned, trying to drag him down. Somewhere in the chatter of the blackbirds he could have sworn he heard her pleas to join her in the water, in her escape. Above the dirt and sweat he could smell the tang of blood and bathwater, feel the sting of porcelain at the scar.

“I’m a’ go up the crick, look fer crawdads. Don’t feel much like swimmin.”

In the shallows upstream Todd poked under rocks, trying to forget.