The supermarket security guy smokes a sneaky cigarillo, his sweater tucked into his belt. A pile of school kids tumble out of the shop, flushed, clutching crisps and bottles. They see the security guy and sober, walking a little too quickly, stiff-leggedly, around the corner. Passersby imagine the sound of running feet. The security guy hears his name being called from inside the supermarket, stubs out his cigarillo and goes back in. The world breathes and calms.
Tim’s stories hopped. They didn’t stalk or leap or glide or weave; they hopped. He looked at them hopping and carried them back.