James T. Riley

“Zane walked over to the bookshelf and picked up a tin container with pencils in it. He rattled the pencils around in a circle, then reached into the tin to pull out a piece of chalk. Then he drew a circle on the wood floor around the chair Mary sat in.
“What are you doing?”
“At the end of my dream, I was very old. And I shed my skin. And I became something frightening that wasn’t like me at all. If I come back, and I’ve turned into a monster, then you’ll be safe from me in there.”
“Oh, I don’t like this.” She felt a little punchy, a little giggly. “And then you’re going off to the bathroom to pee? You’re going to have to hold it.” She held onto his hand. It was like her dad’s hand, maybe even a bit older. The skin was soft, and thinner than her father’s.
“No, really, I have to go.” He pulled his hand.
She didn’t let go. She giggled. “I’m not going to let you go. Not after you just said that to me.”
Her giggling was a bit infectious. And he got the bug. He laughed. “But I have to go.”
“Well, you shouldn’t have said that first. ‘I might turn into a horrible monster of which you should be so afraid that you’ll remain in a chalk . . .’” She giggle-snorted. “’Chalk ring.’ How’s that going to help me?” She giggled again. “I’m having too much fun, Zane; I’m not going to let this turn into some horrible nightmare, because then I’m going to make myself wake up and I might never see you again.”
They stared and stared at each other, the grins frozen on their faces.”
― James Tauro Riley, Hill People