The boy announced, “I’m going to run away.”
Dinner at the Franks, chicken, salad, and white beans on the black table, a round of white plates.
“You’re going to run away?” Father asked. The boy tapped at the edge of his plate with a knife.
Mother took a sip of her drink. “Please don’t do that. You might chip the plate.”
“A train, a train will take me away,” the boy said.
The sister said, putting down a rumpled napkin, “I was the one who cleaned the room. If he’s going to run away, it can be my room. And more space for my things. Plenty of room.”
“A train. And where would you go?” the father asked. “What would you eat?”
“You’ve always wanted the room. But it’s not my room. It was never my room,” the boy said.
“You haven’t told us about the train or what you’d eat,” the mother said. “A train would be some adventure, I’m sure.”
The father said, “I’m sure food would come from somewhere, though. Nothing like this chicken and these beans. But I’m sure it’ll come. Of course, a train wouldn’t be the problem. The problem would be what you’d do when you got there.”
The boy said, “There’s always just walking. I could just walk. Maybe a train would be too slow. With walking I can go away to wherever I wanted.”
“But a train would be some adventure,” the mother said. “Could you stop tapping the plate with your knife. The edge may chip.”
“More chicken, please. I’ll put all the animals on his bed,” the sister said. “We can get them out of those boxes finally.”
“Yeah, I think I’ll walk,” the boy concluded. “I’m going to walk. In the morning I won’t be here, so don’t even look for me.”
“Walking’s good, sure,” the father said, tearing chicken with his fingers. “There’s so much space outside.”
