By Ryan Dowling
I used to get my kicks scaring kids on Halloween.
Leaping from the bushes, I’d roar behind a mask and swing an ax left and right. I’d send the little monsters screaming down the street.
Well, most of the time.
Then came a boy who didn’t even flinch between his Frankenstein bolts. Instead, he extended the twisted branch of his arm—his real arm—at the end of which was a crooked hand with three crooked fingers. He took a Reese’s from the bowl.
“Thank you,” he said.
How do I say this?
I just wasn’t myself anymore.