Kissing him goodnight, I did a final tuck of the sheets.
As I was turning to leave I saw the memory box.
We had started it when he was five: a rock- his favorite playground, a conch- our beach vacation, a ticket stub- his first Disney movie.
Then I paused. There was something in it of which I was unaware.
The nest. It had to be symbolic. There’s no way he could have climbed to retrieve the true villain.
Three days ago, Ryan had mastered the art of using his own epi-pen.
We had nearly lost him. Those blasted bees.
Written for Friday Fictioneers. Requirements: Using the picture prompt, create a 100 word flash story.