Long Bright River

by Liz Moore

It’s a Super Soaker, a neon water gun with a pump on it that acts as the trigger. I am certain that Gee bought it on sale, off-season. I would never have gotten such a thing for him. I’ve never allowed him to have any gun-shaped toys. I keep my face neutral. Thomas inspects it silently. —You loved those when you were a kid, Gee says to me, suddenly. I don’t think this is true. I have no memory of ever even using a water gun. —Did I? I say. Gee nods. The neighbors had one, she says. They played with it all day long, every summer. You wanted to get your hands on that thing, boy. Stood by the window and watched them. Couldn’t drag you away. I know, now, what she’s referencing. But it was the children I was watching, not the gun. I was watching them and making a record of all of their small actions and exchanges, all their mannerisms, so that I might steal them and use them myself.