Cactus Country RV Park was nearly empty, save for a few year-rounders’ trailers sparsely dotting the landscape. With school out for the season there was nothing much to do but languish in the afternoon heat, which on some days could climb as high as 110. Too hot even for the swimming pool. As the only two kids left in the park, Aiden and I spent our summer vacation chasing the shade, looking for any reason to hang out wherever the air conditioning was.
Aiden reminded me of a Norman Rockwell painting I’d once seen, with his big ears and freckles and devil-may-care grin. He was ten, and a little short for his age, with a tiny bald spot right at the top of his head where the ringworm had been. Lots of Cactus Country boys had caught it earlier that year from the dogs, who got it from rolling around in the dirt. Like most, I had the rings pretty bad up and down my arms, but Aiden got it worst out of everyone. Six months later and the hair still hadn’t grown back. Kids used to pick on him for it, calling him an “old man,” provoking him until Aiden ran crying to his trailer. But the kids had all moved away now, and no one in the park cared about Aiden’s bald spot anymore.
