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Age 9: Helping Hands

George can feel the sweat running down his neck as he stands in the middle of the playground. Mulch underneath his shoes and sun beating down on each strand of his hair.

Everything is dark. Hands covering his eyes, his surroundings are hidden away. But that doesn’t matter. George knows this playground by heart. He knows the creak of the swings, the rustle of the nearby trees, the metal clangs of the monkey bars and the squeals coming from the slides. George knows all of it. Dream and George have been coming to the playground since they could walk. It’s home in a way.

George clears his throat.

“One.”

His voice seems to echo over the layer of background chatter. George pauses. Senses sharpening. Listening for the patter of feet. Faint giggles accompanied by wheezing laughter.

“Two.”

George’s nose twitches scenting the air around him. Searching for the tinge of faint pine.

“Three.”

George flicks through each play structure in his mind. The swings? No too obvious. The monkey bars? Well no point in that really. Maybe the slides?

“Four.”

Maybe he tried to climb one of the trees?

“Five.”

George bites his lip in worry. The last time he tried to climb a tree it was to free their kite. A kite that was a gift from his sister.

“Six.”

George remembers nervously standing at the base of the tree watching him stick his tongue out as he reached from branch to branch.

“Seven.”

It had been going great. He was able to grab the string and free the kite. George had been ecstatic.

“Eight.”

But in the excitement he’d lost his grip. Flailing down, knocking into branch after branch with the kite in tow. George had been terrified when his body hit the ground.

“Nine.”

That had been one long day. He insisted he was fine but George knew better. When they went home and told his parents they found out he had a twisted ankle.

“Ten.”

It’s been a couple weeks since and he has yet to climb a tree. George really hopes he isn’t stupid enough to try it again just to win some stupid game.

“Eleven.”

Almost to fifteen. Then he can look. Then he can search for….

A small poke pushes into George’s shoulder. George frowns at the sensation nearly taking his hands off his face. That had been someone right? George furrows his eyebrows trying to recall the sensation.

He doesn’t have to think for long.

A moment later the poking sensation is back. Instead of his left shoulder it’s now traveled to his chest. George frowns. Seriously why does someone have to bother him when he’s trying to play?

George’s hands fly off his face the moment the poke returns. At first his vision swims a bit. The beaming sunshine illuminating the colorful blues and reds of the playground is a sharp difference from the darkness of the back of George’s eyelids. George blinks repeatedly trying to focus.

The person in front of him seems to be patient waiting for George to recover.

George opens his mouth prepared to tell the person to leave him alone. That is until his vision comes into focus. Blond hair, tan freckled skin, piercing green eyes, and a beaming smile. The trickle of pine is all George needs to know to confirm his suspicion.