She doesn't mean it when she yells at him. She really doesn't. But she finds that her voice escapes her throat with more force than she meant to use, hitting his tiny, precious face with a current strong enough to make him cry. His lip begins to quiver. Her hands work frantically to try and salvage what she can from the grassy patches below her. Immediately, a tide of regret pulls her under. She can see the heat of his contained despair rising in his cheeks, threatening to explode.
But even though she feels the regret and she feels the guilt, she will not soothe him. He needs to learn. He should know better than to touch things he is not meant to. And so she stands, brushing the strands of dead grass from her knees, and pats him on the head the way she would pat an unfamiliar dog. She tells him to stop crying; they're in public, and no one wants to cause a scene.
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