He gets right to work, punching and kicking boxes. His help isn’t very helpful, but I didn’t plan on it being so.
It’s a slow process, collecting boxes filled with other boxes and taking them to the dumpster downstairs. I can’t help but notice the label on each of them.
To: Fires and Frostys
They can’t all be from that one video. Did she post more?
As soon as my hands are empty, I pull out my phone, and click on the app.
There are more, but it doesn’t seem like Lyndi is an active participant in any of them. It looks more like her friend just took random videos of her, tagging sponsors and doing shoutouts.
While we clean, Lyndi texts me updates.
Lyndi:Saw the doctor. Is Crew doing okay?
Lyndi:Getting an x-ray.
Lyndi:Waiting for the doctor to come back. I hope Crew is being good for you.
She will be done soon, so I need to hurry if I want to finish.
“Mommy made muffins!” Crew says and I look up to find him opening the oven door.
“Careful, buddy.” I grab a hot pad, but the pan is barely warm anymore.
“Can I have one?”
“Sure.” I pop one out and hand it to him, then take one myself. They don’t look too burnt. I take a bite and my mouth explodes with the taste of salt, and what is that? Did she put full orange slices in these things?
I hold back a gag so Crew doesn’t see.
“Don’t eat that, buddy.” I steal Crew’s muffin and send it to live with the rest of them in the trash.
“But I’m hungry.” He pouts.
I search in the fridge and come up with a go-gurt. I rip off the top and give it to him. It takes him all of ten seconds to slurp the thing down and then we return to the mess.
“Here, buddy, you destroy this box.” I hand him one he’s been using as a fort and go back to the area I still need to finish. I’m halfway through the pile when there’s a loud thud, followed by an ear-piercing screech.
I whirl around and let out a very manly scream.
Blood drips down Crew’s forehead and into his eye as he lies on the floor by the offending coffee table. For a moment, all I see are my comrades. All the blood. All the screams.
I shake my head. I can’t think about the past right now. I grab the nearest throw pillow, pressing it to his forehead. Crew needs me. I’m all he’s got.
“I want Mommy,” he cries.
I didn’t have much time to inspect the cut, but it looked bad. Deep enough he may need stitches.
“Let’s go see her, shall we?”
“Look, I just need to get back there to his mom,” I plead with the lady running the ER desk.
“He needs to be seen by a doctor,” the woman responds.
Crew howls. If I’ve learned anything, it’s that the worddoctoris a curse for this kid.
I give the lady a look, communicating that I need help. “He doesn’t want to see thedoctor. He wants to see his mom, who is seeing a doctor,” I say with emphasis, and finally, finally, she nods her understanding.
