A young boy asked me, “What do the fishes drink?”
I mumbled something about the souls of inquisitive children, then pointed at a squirrel chewing on a battery.
“Where do batteries come from?”
I didn’t know that one either.
“The supermarket,” I said.
I pointed to a plastic bag caught on a tree branch. It flapped in the breeze like a flag.
“Where do plastic bags come from?”
“The supermarket,“ I said again. It felt good to know one for sure.
“Where do supermarkets come from?”
I said nothing. We kept walking, quiet until the boy stopped and pointed at my face.
“You forgot to finish shaving,” he said.