He was about 8 years old when I first saw him, a handsome little boy with bright, eager blue eyes and a "Frankenstein" t-shirt. I asked him for his name, which he gave me. "Funny, that's my name, too," I said. I asked him what he was doing, and he promptly launched into the narrative: "Luke Skywalker went to Jabba The Hutt's palace to rescue Han Solo before they could throw him into the Sarlacc pit and Princess Leia dressed up like a bounty hunter but she woke Jabba up when she unfroze Han Solo now they're all gonna get thrown in the Sarlacc pit but R2D2 has a lightsaver and he's gonna throw it to Luke and..." He showed me each of the toys as he said each character's name, totally absorbed in his imagination. He suddenly cut off his story when he noticed the tattoo on my left hand. "What's that?" "It's a duck," I said, " He's there so I can keep an eye on him." He quickly looked away back to his Sarlacc pit, grabbing the Luke Skywalker figure. "I don't like ducks. They're scary." He started gathering up his toys. "The streetlights are coming on. I gotta go home, you wanna come, Mom won't mind." "No, I've got dinner waiting for me, too, but maybe I'll see you again." He put his hand up for a high-five; I slapped him one.
I stood there and watched him go, feeling like I'd let him down.
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