His old man didn’t crush the empty can of cheap beer and toss it over his shoulder onto the backyard crabgrass as usual. Instead, he placed it gingerly on the picnic table.
Jacob knew this level of calm. Not good.
But this time he had a plan.
His saw his old man was barefoot. Jacob crept under the table and sprinted away with the pair of abandoned work boots.
He raced through the woods, his old man’s boots dragging behind him.
Jacob grinned. At least he had a fighting chance now.
Anything to stave off another drunken Friday night beating.
The Weekday One Hundred 