Crinkle, snap, crunch.

The totality of mistimed footfalls on the pliable earth bred a cascade of crisp sounds with the shivery breeze. To her left, juggling keys, reverberated, stifled behind a pouch that beared a bulging outline of digits enclasping it. Doing the same, pockets of her olive-shaded cargo swallowed her skin from the wrist down, swaying the hems in sync with her continuous shuffle through the leaf litter.

Crinkle. Snap. Crunch.

Settling a foot beyond her—their—abode, if it could even be considered as one, bestowed reprieve. A guaranteed auditory escape; a sanctuary. Relentlessly marching on the rich carpet of gold, amber, and crimson leaves was, no fucking doubt, head and shoulders above than being acquainted to Mom's snores terrorizing the couch.

To make matters worse? The booze stench reeking from the gape-mouthed crescendo.

At least, here, with unhurried strolls across the winding paths, their twain forms familiarized itself of peace, of laughter filling naïf mouths. Noises scarcely heard in the Palmer's home. Then, swiveling her gaze fixated on an attentive mother from a park bench. Eagle-eyed surveillance on, presumably, her two kids frolicking a ream amidst the grassy field.

Those days. Naive, simple, and the best damn times... when Mom was still sober—herself.

"Hey," Van nudged at your rib, igniting an involuntary flinch. The saga of ill manners at the older sibling continues.

"Remember that time we tried to dig our way to China? Like near that spot," and she pointed.

A telltale quirk twitching your lips kick-started nostalgia of pine, earth, and sudoric musk.

"We spent the whole damn day digging. We were so convinced we were going to make it," chuckled she, stringing cheeks loftier until the stippled caramel on her midface arced. "You even told me to pack grilled cheese sandwiches."

"Worse thing is I ended burning the bread," stirred her head breadthways, but the amused tug at her lips remained.

"Like, who the hell does that?"