Matty tore apart every bag, every cupboard, annihilated nooks, and cracked crannies. The bag of s’morcs had vanished, like summer light. She peered into the teacup pantry, hands grabbing the doors, scanning every spec and interrogating the dust bunnies, as if she could make them appear by willpower. She had been saving those for a special occasion, and that occasion had arrived. She searched her own memory like the pantry shelves, carefully, looking again, and again. Not a cracker, not a crumb.
“Guarf?”
“Yes, lassie?”
“Did you eat my last bag of s'morcs?”
“Er, don’t recall…”
“They were in a green bag, from the Midsummer Festival. Please, Guarf…I won’t be mad, I just need to know.”
“Perhaps I did, when Lupe was here…we needed a treat, you know, my sweet tooth and all…”
The raindrops showed up on the front step.
She hung her head and sighed. The kind of sigh that feels like if that breath isn’t taken; there may not be another one, a sigh that reminds lungs to continue working. The kind of sigh that hugs the heart and tells it it’s going to be all right. It is the sigh of resolved disappointment.
Packing a satchel with second-best goodies, she was out the door.
“Don’t wait up for me, my friend. I’ll be late.”
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