The seeker counted with their pudgy fingers on one hand,
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Their eyes clamped shut, one elbow covering their eyes to ensure they wouldn’t catch a glimpse of anything. The other kids can’t make cheating claims. A trail of ants marched over run-down sneakers, crawling on the seeker’s bare ankles exposed from too-short socks. A swarm of buzzing flies traveled past their ear, distracting the seeker from counting. They lost count. And again, the seeker began,
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Voice fragmented and collapsed into a stuttering whisper.
Sweat dripped off long eyelashes into crinkled eyes, burning as their brows formed creases. The dry summer left the seeker gasping for air between each number. Their elbow began itching wildly—was it the crawling trail of ants or the swarm of flies? Even so, they resisted the urge to open their eyes, to take long pauses to breathe between counting, to itch—to swat away the ants or flies. Their elbow held firmly over their eyes; their life—their kindergarten social reputation—depended on the game.
Then, with a strong gust of wind, the tall, looming grass swallowed them entirely—the ants, the flies, and the seeker, leaving no trace behind. Worrying about whether or not the other kids would share snacktime attention and treats with you now seems silly when you’re nowhere to be found. Once the other kids noticed you didn’t finish your count, they continued counting themselves,
Ninety-eight.
Ninety-nine.
One hundred.
And they haven’t learned how to count past one hundred yet
Those hidden within the field of millions of grass blades lay quiet, wondering when the seeker would catch them.
But who finds the seeker? ▲
