I let them run on ahead but not too far, just enough to hear the crunch of gravel, the morning mist wraps tendrils around weary legs. Snare a second of walking sleep.
We’ve been there: four boys become ten, excitedly lost in some other timeline. I watch them become the mist. My calls “mind the traffic” echo and fade as the mists leave me with the crunch of gravel and a tune I find myself humming to clear the silence.