Fair Hand

Jacob wheeled up to the rusty bench where Grandpa sat. A narrow beam of sunlight painted radiant warmth on his face, cold metal of his push rims contrasting with the sun’s heat. In the oak branches above, grey squirrels leaped between branches holding acorns. Amazing feats of agility. Tucked away in the safety of a high bough, a disgusted red squirrel tittered.

"Greys are pulling a heist." Jacob squinted behind thick glasses.

"Keen eye. You wouldn’t think it, but squirrels can be vicious."

Grandpa nodded to the red squirrel, "Reckon that’s a mama. Needs food to keep her milk up."

Two of the grays, pilfered loot in hand, scampered down the oak, disappeared into the bushes. A third lingered, chittering at the female red, taunting.

"That’s not fair," Jacob said.

"Nope," Grandpa agreed. "Cards aren't always dealt fair."

Grandpa smiled. Jacob found comfort in how the skin folded up in the corner of those eyes.

A squeal. A red squirrel collided with a grey. The grey twisted in the air, hit the ground running, chaotically careening away. The red sniffed the dropped acorn.

“Sometimes you get a good deal,” Grandpa said.

Jacob grinned. "Or an honest dealer."

His grandpa laughed.