Page 9 of Hunted, Season Three

Or…two?

Whatever shit is right for him.

That’s all we want.

And being raised in a house with three parents will – theoretically – work as a reminder that we believe in doing the shit that fits him best, whatever that means.

I pray to the big mechanic in the sky he never worries about that.

Stopping outside his bedroom, I crack the red painted door a little wider to sneak a peek of him in his crib but am surprised to see nothing but crinkled blankets.

Redcrinkled blankets.

What the fuck?

Why are they red?

When did he get red blankets?

Where are the checkered racing pattern ones?

Did he puke on them again?

I give the door another glance during my exit, immediately noticing the shade is now much darker than I remember.

Why’d we pick this one?

Why’d we pick something that looks so much like blood?

Why didn’t we pick something closer to the classic sportscar color?

And why’s the Ferrari horse decal crooked?

Wait.

It’s not crooked.

It’s fucking broken.

Headless.

Headless?!

What.The.Fuck!

Why’s it headless?

When did it get that way?

Why would The Kid not fix this shit the second he saw it?

Does he want our little guy to have haunting nightmares for years to come?!

Is it not bad enough that our wife still does?

Unhappy grunts reverberate throughout the short hall during my stomp to the end where our bedroom is located.

For now, it’s not so bad having his nursey close aka within an immediate retrieval distance.

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