AN: I question the reality of this. Although she might have been panicking about what the school would do...I doubt they'd do anything, but stranger things have happened.
Scary made a Wattpad account! I like it. Only problem is that it's flooded with One (1? Wun? I DON'T KNOW!) Direction stories. Creepy...anyways, if anybody has one and wants to find me over there, it's the same username-ScaryScarecrows. Just beware the band fics...*Twilight Zone theme plays*
APieceOfThePuzzle-Nothing whatsoever. It's from some Christmas story. Christmas Ghosts or something. A Christmas Carol, Scarecrow. Scrooge says it. Constantly. What are they teaching you children these days...? You're mean to the reviewers, Jon. So are you. Fun, isn't it?
He isn't moving. He's breathing-barely-but he isn't moving.
She isn't sure which is worse-that she didn't notice or that he didn't tell her. Tendrils of guilt curl around her stomach. How could she have been so blind? He didn't catch pneumonia overnight!
Why didn't he tell her he was sick? The first she heard of it was when the school called-no more observant than she was, apparently-and asked her to pick him up. She hadn't been pleased-had he gotten in a fight yet again? They couldn't afford new glasses!-but she'd come all the same.
And he had been very, very sick.
He coughs, one arm curling around the raggedy stuffed rabbit. Why didn't he say something? They could have avoided all of this if he'd just said something, for once in his life…
Idiot child.
He coughs again and whimpers something that sounds like, "Granny, m'sorry."
Her heart catches and the guilt tightens its grip. Maybe she's too hard on the boy…but spare the rod, spoil the child.
That thought does nothing to quell the guilt and she reaches over to pet his head. His skin is hot and his hair is sticking to his face. She brushes it aside.
"It's all right, child."
He doesn't make any more noise and she picks up the big book of fairy tales and nursery rhymes that her grandmother had always read from. It's starting to crumble now, the once-red binding more of a dark brown, but the pages inside are still in fine shape.
"Sing a song of sixpence, a pocketful of rye…"
THE END