Leviathan

The bus was already full when I got on at Harvard Avenue this morning. I stopped midway through the aisle, choosing my spot based on where I thought I'd be most out of the way of harried commuters rushing in or out. Grabbing the pole to my left, I opened the book my uncle lent me this weekend...and felt a gentle, exploratory tugging at the bottom of my shirt. I looked down, alarmed. A small boy, alone and with eyes like a cat's, was pulling on the sheer material of the makeshift fabric belt that dangled just below the edge of my shirt. He couldn't have been more than four years old.

"Hullo," I smiled -- relieved.

"Hi."

"Are you going to school?"

"No." More tugging. Now, he batted the loose end of my belt. "I am going to see many animals. Two WHOLE turtles! You can't come, either."

"Of course not. But how fun for you!"

Growing bolder, he pulled the fabric till the knot I'd hastily tied began to loosen. I kept waiting for some adult to turn around and reprimand him, for some young mother taking a moment's rest to become aware of what he was doing and call his name sharply. He's four, I found myself thinking. He's bold for four. Flattening out the fabric with his left hand, he made a puppet over his right.

"That's very clever," I said. "Are you making a costume for your hand?"

"No, silly!" He leaned in conspiratorially. "I shouldn't tell you this, but I am actually a dinosaur. There is no costume. That is why I am going to see the turtles. Dinosaurs eat turtles. Did you know that? It's true."

He let out the barest of imitation roars. I laughed, to his delight. The light changed, and a seat opened up in the back of the bus.

"I have to go now," I told him, "but I'll keep your secret...for now. If I promise not to tell the turtles you're coming, will you let me go?"

He nodded. I'd been awake for hours, but he started my day.