And three teenagers stood eight feet away with their phones out, filming.
Not helping. Not calling anyone. Filming.
One of them was narrating it. I could hear him doing a voice. A dumb, slow, cruel voice, pretending to be my son.
The other two were laughing so hard one of them had to hold onto the fence.
I yelled at them to stop. I begged. I said he’s a child, he’s nine years old, please put the phones down.
The tall one looked right at me, lifted his phone higher, and said, “It’s a public park, lady.”
I have never in my life wanted to hurt a kid. I wanted to hurt that one.
But I couldn’t leave Eli. If I stood up and walked away from him in that state, he’d run. He’d run into the parking lot. So I stayed down there in the woodchips with my hand on his back, listening to my son being made into a joke by three boys who’d go home and eat dinner and never think about it again.
