Mama trudges up the hill with the Mom cycle. Son, decked out in toddlers’ playclothes and a hat, sits in the basket behind.
“Mama, mite!” he points enthusiastically across the street at nothing.
“Eh?” Mama continues to watch the ground she rolls across.
His hands flail more wildly in the same direction. “Koko, koko…”
“Doko koko?” Mama says as she looks up and smiles at him.
