Prompt: Moist

Words: 145

...


• 3 PM •

Dusty volumes of spells and ancient myths teetered dangerously under the added weight of Sam, who climbed onto the haphazard pile, reaching desperately for the worn journal. He stretched and stretched, his fingers grazing the leather-bound pages and then the top shelf, as the makeshift ladder wobbled underneath him. Then everything collapsed to the floor, the bookshelf crashing thunderously beside him.

Sam sat in silence, stunned at first, before he gave in to crying.

"Sam?"

Dark eyes opened to see the owner of the library stepping through the doorway, over the mess of books.

"Bobby?"

"I've been looking all over for you, son."

Sam wiped at a moist cheek.

"I haf to stop it," he mumbled, forgetting to mention his aching bottom. "It's my fawt."

"We'll get to that." He scooped the child into his arms.

"But, you should know, there's no stopping the apocalypse alone."