Needle and Thread

2

Two days later, in the air conditioned haven of a stainless steel kitchen, Harry meets Olajide.

Harry likes to think of it as their first meeting rather than their second. They hadn't exchanged names that day in the forest, or even introductory greetings for that matter. The boy had asked for Harry's stick, and Harry had been helpless to do anything but agree - a fruitless interaction that yielded little more than confusion, and perhaps an inkling of hope for something more.

The morning sun breaks through Harry's bedroom window like it always does this time of year, strong and invasive. It scorches the tiny cars printed on his quilt cover before reaching his eyes, filtering through his closed eyelids with blinding force.

"Harry, get up!"

His grandmother's voice bounces off the walls of his room like a ping pong ball, rattling angrily within the confines of his skull. Harry's eyelids peel open like the waxy skin of an orange, slow and careful lest the sunlight accost him any further.

"Harry!"

With an aggravated huff, he throws off his bed sheets and tumbles onto the floor, landing on the scratchy carpet with a muted thud. "I'm coming!"

He hates when his grandmother's voice reaches that shrill crescendo, surpassing a pitch Harry has always thought only dogs can hear. It grates his nerves, pulling them apart with irritation, only to immediately stitch themselves back together when the subsequent guilt sets in. Harry knows he should do as his grandmother tells him, but he struggles to find it within himself to carry out her every whim when they are all so incredibly, mundanely boring.

Still, the ever looming threat of a slipper to his backside looms over Harry, haunting him like a premature ghost. He grumbles quietly to himself as he picks his body up off the floor, making sure to smooth out the creases in his pyjamas lest his grandmother find something else to scream at him for so early in the morning.

A rushed breakfast awaits him, forcing Harry to hurriedly scoop a bowl of soggy cereal into his mouth, washed down with a glass of pulpy orange juice and one more of whole milk - to keep him strong and healthy, his grandmother says as he struggles to gulp it down.

With his bowl clean and a line of milk painted across his upper lip like the moustache of an elderly man, Harry is rushed back upstairs to take an uncomfortably cold dip in the bath and brush his teeth until his gums feel raw. He spends a few spare seconds tugging at his front teeth, pinching them between his forefinger and thumb, but they remain glued in place. A withered sigh departs him - yet another night without a visit from the tooth fairy. Mina has been boasting all week about her growing collection of coins, a result of the three teeth she lost one day after another.

Poking and prodding, Harry remembers the boy from the forest and his smile. It makes him feel both envious and insufficient that he can't carry out one of the few jobs meant only for six year olds. Children are supposed to grow up, and Harry can't manage to do even that.

Another well-timed shout from his grandmother has Harry tearing his gaze from the bathroom mirror and thundering into his bedroom, where he pulls on a shirt and shorts combination she probably won't approve of.

His suspicions are confirmed when he stumbles into the living room where his grandmother awaits him, a disapproving frown deepening her wrinkled face.

She sighs, giving her grandson a judgemental onceover. "I suppose this will have to do. We're already running late."

Despite the glowing sun, it's deceivingly cold outside. Harry's arms prickle with a layer of goose bumps, and he almost wishes his grandmother had forced him into his most hated yellow raincoat, like she always does on the cloudiest days, when rain hangs heavily in the sky and a cool breeze bites his bare skin. He doesn't complain, though, following his grandmother along secluded country roads that wind through wooded clearings and pass by hidden houses coated in thick swarms of ivy and fern.