Marianne and her son David were out on this chill evening as well, strolling the streets. Marianne was a proud Paixaoese woman who carried herself with every dignity and grace. David was young and energetic, as blond and blue-eyed as his mother was. At about seven years of age, he could be more than a handful at any given moment.

“David, really, stop that,” Marianne said idly as David scurried ahead of her, playing with his favorite toy, a ball that he could hardly leave the house without. She knew he wouldn’t listen, and sighed wearily.

“I’ll be good, Mommy!” David answered. He took joy in kicking the ball as hard as he could, then chasing after it. Then he’d come hurrying back to his mother and repeat the process. More often than not, it led to trouble. He was returning again from one such kick.

“David, if you kick that ball once more, I’ll pinch your ear and drag you the rest of the way home like that. Do you hear me?” Marianne threatened.

David laughed, knowing his mother’s idle threats as intimately as the back of his hand. He kicked the ball hard again. It went flying. David giggled and took off after it. It never landed in the same place twice.

Marianne, resigned to David’s antics, walked placidly in her son’s wake.