You hear a little crack and a squishing sound and the little girl stops, bends down, tilts up her foot, and examines her shoe. “Oh wow . . . ” she says.
And You run over to her. “What happened?!” You say.
“LOOKIT,” she said. She points.
You look at the bottom of her shoe. “Looks like you killed — I mean, the frog’s –”
“When will it stop stopping?”
The little girl looks up to you with wide-eyed fascination. “Will the frog come back?”
You pause. “After what?”
“After it’s dead.”
Silence–This is the question your mother had been preparing for, but you’re not your mother.
The red ink.
Presently, Your Sister looks up to You with water trickling down her eyes, but among fire and water, there are no tears, not a drop: “Will it unsquish?”
Will it unsquish? . . .
You have a little funeral for the frog, Your Sister giving it a song, and when the frog finally does come hopping back to life, she screams, “Ahhh!!! Kill it!”
It seemed she was not dropped as a child, but thrown (Couch Face).