TITLE: Dakota in Spades
Sam Dakota fought his way through the courthouse crowds. Late afternoon, downtown Kansas City was problematic. With his long ebony braid, sorrel skin, and a lean lanky frame often swathed in black, he blended in with the mix of people battling for the sidewalk. Danny’s bus stopped at 4:00. Sam’d never make it. He’d never missed a drop off since Kate died. Until today.
His Tony Lamas boots slapped the concrete as he rushed to his truck. He knew all the shortcuts and made use of them. Maybe this would be one of those rare times the bus ran late. He’d prepared for circumstances like these; the keypad he’d installed to open the garage door, and his neighbor, Alvin. Eighty but spry and active in his yard when the weather was nice, he was willing to keep an eye on Danny.
In accordance with Murphy’s Law, Sam hit every light red. At Oak, he hung a left, followed by a right on Brindle Circle. Number 215. A quaint white Queen Anne highlighted by Everest green shutters and an etched door his wife, Kate, had insisted on.
Sam pulled into the driveway, slammed it into park, and leaped out in one movement. He crossed the lawn, stairs, and porch in record time, calling Danny’s name as he entered. He glanced at the wood floor where his son dropped his Spiderman backpack. Sam had tripped over it too many times.
The wide planks gleamed, unmarred by the black and red pack.