![]() Finding the finger bone felt the same way. ![]() Or the night ten months ago, when his father took a taxi to the airport and never came back. The day Stanly’s sister was born, for example. One little thing happened, and nothing else was ever the same. Or he might awaken a horde of slimy, flesh-eating zombies. He might find something good hiding underground, like a dinosaur fossil. In that moment he felt like an explorer, like Dagger Rockbomb, hero of his favorite video game, Skatepark Zombie Death Bash. Wind slapped his face, blowing orange and brown leaves in from the neighbor’s yard. Cold seeped from the bone finger into his fleshy one. He touched the bone, quick, like it might bite. A shiver tickled his toes and curled all the way up the back of his neck. It could have been a bean sprout, only it was white and hard and shaped like the tip of a little finger. ![]() The day the rain stopped, Stanly Stanwright found a bone in the garden, poking up out of the dirt. To my grandmother, who inspired me to write, and my grandfather, who taught me that whimsy and wonder often hide in the most ordinary places. ![]()
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