The boy’s face was like a old dog’s, with a gnarled nose and wide-set eyes. A face only a mother could love, though in moments of solitary truthtelling and confession, even his own mother had to blink back tears. Had he a warm and kind heart or a lively and engaging disposition, she wouldn’t have felt so desperately sad for the child and worried about his future. As it were, he was hopelessly neurotic, often cold, usually misanthropic, and generally malcontent. Sometimes, she felt so overwhelmed by his lack of any potentially redeeming qualities that she hoped he would be abducted and taken away–by a marauding pack of wolves, perhaps, or an itinerant folk music troupe. As she drifted off into the reverie of her son being stolen, the boy’s shrieky pule jolted her back to the regrettable present.

“I don’t have a shirt to wear!” he whined.

She sighed as she went to the closet to find him a shirt. It didn’t really matter.