Thirteen
Phil stretched and yawned.
Sunlight pierced just right through tree branches—right into his eyes.
He sat up and hit his head.
Hard.
“Ow. Damn.”
Giggle.
He jumped and hit his head again.
“Damn!”
He’d crawled up onto the playground equipment and hidden partly inside the plastic bowl. That thing was made for little kids to lie in and watch the world, not for a full size man to sleep in.
And now, when he woke up, he’d slid into it part way and the sound of his head banging against the plastic jarred him. Echoed along the bars and pipes.
At least it hit on the back of his head and not his face, not his nose.
He must have been tired, because he’d planned to go to Hillcrest and sneak in—hide in there and maybe have a snack from the kitchen.
Giggle.
Bam!
Hit his head again.
