Ivan

The summer grew torrid as fast as his thoughts grew dangerous.

" Ivan." His mother would say. " Get off the porch and put on a shirt." But the disparity in her voice was all too evident.

And it was in times like those, when Ivan saw a small hint of misery in his mother's eyes, that he wished that the word "help" was not a trap, because maybe then he would ask for some. But he knew better.

"No," was all he would reply.

And for the first four weeks of summer this exchange became a routine. That was until a beat up station wagon and a moving van with the word "PHILL-MOVERS" parked two houses down.