They thought sticking me in the backyard would help. Somehow fresh air and menial tasks would unscramble my circuits.
They were mistaken.
I dragged the plastic rake across a patch of dried grass, artfully amassing a collection of brown leaves.
I bent down and dug both hands into the crunchy pile, my eyes never losing sight of her bedroom window. She wasn’t there though, her job at the pharmacy didn’t end until five on Saturdays.
I dumped the debris into the long, oversized bag and wondered what I would say the next time I saw her.
Something court approved, obviously.
The Weekday One Hundred 