Migrators

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ALAN HUNKERED down. He didn’t know how much longer his knees were going to last. They burned against the stretched fabric of his jeans. He put his camera to his eye and checked the focus again. In his viewfinder, the boy kicked rocks into the road.

Alan lost his balance and flailed his arm. He crashed down on his ass, right next to what he suspected was poison ivy. Alan’s father used to call it “poison ivory.” The mispronunciation still made Alan smile. He looked up—the boy turned and looked his direction.

“Shit,” Alan whispered to himself.

The boy had seen him.

Through the late summer leaves, curling to brown at their brittle edges, he locked eyes with the boy.

“Dad! They’re going to see you. You promised,” the boy said.

“Sorry,” Alan yelled. “Sorry.”

As soon as you made one concession to a twelve-year-old boy, everything became a negotiation. This one had ended with Alan being allowed to take pictures of his son boarding the school bus for the first time, if and only if none of the other kids spied him.

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