“I have a plan,” he whispered.
Now, as a parent, the words I have a plan coming from an eight-year-old should trigger alarms. And to be fair, they did—just not the right kind. In my head, “plan” meant a sign, a note, maybe packing snow into the shape of the word STOP.
“Nick, your plans can’t hurt anyone. And you can’t break things on purpose.”
He nodded quickly. “I know. I’m not trying to hurt him. I just want him to stop.”
He wouldn’t tell me more.
The next afternoon, he went outside like usual—only this time he went straight to the edge of the lawn near the fire hydrant that sits right by our property line.
From the window, it looked like he’d simply chosen a new spot closer to the road. He built this snowman bigger than the others—thick base, wide middle, round head. I cracked the door open and called out, “You good out there?”
Nick turned and grinned. “Yeah! This one’s special!”
I noticed small flashes of red near the bottom, but I didn’t think much of it. Hydrants are bright. Snow doesn’t always pack evenly. My brain filed it under kid stuff and moved on.
Then that evening, as I was starting dinner, I heard it.
A metal shriek.
And then a furious howl outside.
“YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME!”
My heart launched into my throat. I ran to the living room, and Nick was already at the window with his hands flat against the glass, eyes wide—not scared, not crying—watching.
Mr. Streeter’s car was jammed nose-first into the fire hydrant.
The hydrant had snapped open and was blasting a thick, roaring column of water straight up like a geyser. It rained down on his hood, the street, the yard—everything. Headlights glowed weakly through the spray like the car was drowning in slow motion.
At the base of the broken hydrant was a mangled pile of snow, sticks, and that ratty red scarf Nick insisted made them “official.”
“Nick,” I whispered, not even sure I wanted the answer. “What did you do?”
He didn’t look away from the window.
“I put the snowman where cars aren’t supposed to go,” he said quietly. “I knew he’d go for it.”
Outside, Mr. Streeter was slipping around in the water, yelling words I’m not repeating. Then he looked up, right toward our window, and his eyes locked onto Nick.
He stomped across the lawn and pounded on our front door so hard the frame shook.
I opened it before he could hit it again.
He was soaked—hair dripping, jacket dripping, even his eyelashes dripping. He jabbed a finger toward me like he was trying to physically transfer blame.
“This is YOUR fault! Your little psycho did this on purpose!”
I kept my voice level, because nothing escalates a situation faster than matching someone’s volume.
“Are you okay? Do we need an ambulance?”
“I HIT A HYDRANT!” he barked. “Because your kid HID IT with a snowman!”
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