![]() ![]() She pulled away and padded off in her slippers to answer it, a Velcro roller tumbling out of her hair and sticking, burr-like, in the carpet. But then the phone rang and her freshly moisturized hand froze, suspended in the space. She reached for the boy’s face, as if to give his bandaged chin a playful pinch or tuck his too-long hair behind his earlobe. And you, little man, are my extra-special reward.” “Did I do something to deserve an extra-special reward?” There she was, waiting for him to pump his fist and thrash with glee (not that he would ever dare jump on the bed). Will knew he should be jabbering with excitement. It had a paddling pond for tadpoles and a rocky ledge where frogs could doze beneath a canopy of green plastic clover. On this particular Saturday, mother was both a noun and a verb.īehind her, at the end of Will’s bed, was the frog habitat he’d begged for all summer. His mother, Josephine, was smiling down at him, her blue eyes misty-soft, sunlight streaming through her hair, the same way it did to the happy Jesus in Will’s Storybook Bible. Her face was the first thing William Hurst saw when he opened his eyes from his not-so-sweet dreams. ![]()
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