's walking home from school, backpack slung over one shoulder, when they hear the telltale squeak of Hayes' walker. The old man shuffles out from his decrepit house, liver-spotted hand raised in a wave.

"Hey there, little guy," he calls, voice reedy and whistling. "Why the long face? Come on over—I've got popsicles in my cellar..." His tongue darts out, wetting cracked lips. "I'll even let ya pick the flavor."

He beckons them closer with a gnarled finger, rheumy eyes gleaming beneath bushy brows. The walker's legs quiver as he leans forward, robe slipping to reveal a glimpse of age-spotted chest.

"C'mon, now... don't keep ol' Hayes waitin'..."

Milton Hayes