From halfway down the block I can hear him: the howl of a little boy that has lost all hope.
When I reach the corner, it doesn't take me long to find him, or the object of his dejected wailing. He's no more than seven years old, crouched in a bent-knee stance, as if gathering power for his despair from the earth beneath his size five boots, and directing his very-real, not-crocodile tears at the black SUV idling in the street.
As he runs towards the vehicle, the door opens, and a man gets out, a woman's voice following him, saying, "You're just giving in by getting him now."
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