Michael Marano, 129 TESS
45 Seconds of Terror
I feel another spoonful of curry-soaked rice drop onto my thigh. My legs are crossed at the 1-foot kitchen table we eat at every night and Apple is perched on the edge of my knee. Name and I wait for him to finish eating so we can go to bed. He examines every bite, his eyebrows furrowed as if he’s never seen rice before.
He takes a gulp of water straight from the pitcher, signifying he’s full. Name looks around to make sure no one is coming and scoops the rest of his food onto my plate. We all flinch as the barking and squealing begins, shaking the cobwebs on the windowsill. The neighborhood dogs have chosen our backyard to brawl in this month.
I take all of our dishes outside and rinse them with the hose next to our house. I can’t see the dogs, but I can hear them. It’s the scariest 45 seconds of each night.
I turn around and Name is standing behind me. I jump…
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