I caught a crawdad in the creek and scrambled through the woods to show my mother who was washing dishes in the kitchen. I could not breathe when I found her there and so lifted the crawdad well above my head for her to see. She smiled and brought down a bowl for me to put it in. I took it to the bathroom, filled up the sink with water and dumped it in. I closed and locked the door. I stood on the toilet and opened the mirror-cabinet. I quickly ate a cough drop and spat cherry-red into the crawdad’s sink water. I drained the sink and watched the crawdad try to scuttle up the side, pinching with its claws. I sat on the toilet, put my chin on the cold sink, and watched the crawdad, and the crawdad, I thought, watched me. The sky was nearly too dark to see when I came back outside with the crawdad in the bowl. I said the pledge of allegiance to the flag and danced around in circles, holding the bowl to the sky. I found my yellow wiffle-ball-bat buried halfway in the dirt. I put the bowl on the ground and picked up the bat and the crawdad by its tail, tossed it straight up into the sky and hit it deep into the woods. It arched over the trees and into the dark woods; I did not hear it land.