(Written for The Hundred Microfiction Contest – 3rd Place)
There are nineteen of them. Lined up against the brick wall. Waiting to taste the cool, metallic stream of water in the shade. Scratching at scabs on their bony legs. Drumming damp hands on the hot brick. Sticking out their dry tongues like dogs.
They will be too sweaty now to squirm while she reads a picture book. She’s tired, too. Maybe the rest of the afternoon will pass without incident.
Then, a scream. Blood sizzles on the pavement. A triumphant hand in the air, something glinting white between two pudgy fingers.
“My tooth!”
Pandemonium.