Mom took his temperature, brought him some hot tea, and assumed the “August's mom” role again.
“Via's mom,” who had come out for a little while, was put away.
I understood, though: August was in bad shape.
Neither one of us asked him why he had worn his Bleeding Scream costume to school instead of the Boba Fett costume Mom had made for him.
If it annoyed Mom to see the costume she had worked on for two weeks tossed on the floor, unused, she didn't show it.
Trick or Treat
August said he wasn't feeling well enough to go trick-or-treating later in the afternoon,
which was sad for him because I know how much he loved to trick-or-treat—especially after it got dark outside.
Even though I was well beyond the trick-or-treating stage myself, I usually threw on some mask or other to accompany him up and down the blocks,
watching him knocking on people's doors, giddy with excitement.
I knew it was the one night a year when he could truly be like every other kid. No one knew he was different under the mask.
To August, that must have felt absolutely amazing.
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