Free A Tiny Piece of Sky by Shawn K. Stout

something.”
    â€œWill not,” said Frankie. But the truth was, she wasn’t so sure.
    â€œOh no? Just last week Mrs. Vanner told me that her cousin’s little boy had a hangnail on his finger that he wouldn’t let alone, and his finger swelled up the size of a banana. Marshall, his name was, I think.” Mother raised her eyebrows. “Do you know him?”
    Frankie shook her head. And then for a second she swore she almost saw the corner of Mother’s mouth turn up into a smile. “Oh, well then, it was an awful thing. Worse than a snakebite, Mrs. Vanner said, you know, the pain. That boy’s screams were heard all the way on Mulberry. Which is a long way from Cannon Avenue.”
    â€œCannon Avenue?”
    Mother nodded. “That’s where the poor boy lives. The agony he must’ve been in. Just think on it. His mother told him over and over to quit picking at the thing, but that boy just couldn’t let it be. Youknow how boys are. He was a nose-picker, too, no doubt about it.” Mother took a step closer to Frankie and leaned down so she could look at her straight on, the space between the tips of their noses only wide enough to pass a dime. This was Mother’s technique, to get as close to you as possible so that the words coming out of her mouth, along with every single ounce of their meaning, wouldn’t have far to travel and couldn’t hop on a breeze and take a detour. She did not trust regular talking distance when it came to matters as serious as amputation. “An infection came next,” said Mother. “They had to bus a doctor in from Pennsylvania to work on it. A specialist.”
    â€œFor hangnails?” asked Frankie.
    â€œThat’s right,” said Mother, with conviction. “A hangnail specialist. Doctors here never saw anything like it.”
    Frankie swallowed.
    Mother straightened her back and took off her glasses. She polished the lenses with the hem of her skirt, then held them up to the light and, once satisfied, slid them back on. “A couple of days later,” she continued, “his whole finger turned a lovely shade of green. They tried to save it, but . . .”
    â€œBut what?” said Frankie.
    â€œWHACK!”
Mother brought the side of her hand down on the table.
    Frankie flinched and tucked her fingers into tight fists.
    â€œPoor boy had to learn the hard way,” said Mother. “Now, doesn’t that make you think twice about it?”
    Frankie nodded. It certainly did make her think twice—about hiding under the dining room table again, where she could be discovered so easily.
    â€œNow, then.” Mother smoothed her hair in the mirror as if they had just finished talking about the weather and not about some poor boy’s chopped-off finger. “Your father’s waiting for us.”
    â€œWhat about Elizabeth?” asked Frankie again.
    â€œDon’t you worry so much about your sister. That’s my job.” She picked up her pocketbook from the table and made it to the door in five efficient strides, her square heels clicking on the hardwood floor. “Come on, now.”
    â€œForever a Number Three,” Frankie said under her breath.
    Mother turned her head. “What was that?”
    â€œNothing,” said Frankie. “I’m coming.”

12
    THIS WAS ONLY THE second time Frankie had been inside the restaurant, and she didn’t think it possible for the place to look any worse for wear than the first time she’d laid eyes on it. But man oh day, was she entirely wrong. For one thing, the walls by the bar and dining room were very much gone. Knotted wooden beams stood there instead, like the bare bones of the old place that hadn’t seen the light of day for a hundred years and were wondering why all of a sudden they were indecent. Mercy! Buckets of plaster sat in the middle of the floor, where the tables and chairs were just a few