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Lusik stood over the form of his little brother. The little one was crying has doubled over holding something in his arms. "What do you have in your hands ?" asked Lusik. </span><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ffffff">"A ... li-ttle bird."</span><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#666666"> he said between breaking sobs. "Oh yeah ? Why you holding it then ?" Lusik questioned leaning in. </span><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ffffff">"Its wing is broken and its going to die."</span><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#666666"> the brother said. Luisk looked at him for a moment then chuckled a bit, "That's the way off life kido, some win and others lose and in you hands right now is a loser." </span><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ffffff">"But can't I help It ?"</span><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#666666"> the little brother yelled rushing to his feet. "You could, but if its wing doesn't heal right its good as dead." Lusik informed his little brother. The brothers face was full of disappointing and determination. </span><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#ffffff">"I'm going to help it Lusik and its going to live."</span><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#666666"> He said running off the house. "Good luck, Michel." Lusik called afterward.<br/>
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Lusik laughed to himself as he walked over to his car fumbling with his keys. He got into it and slammed the door shut to make sure it was closed. His 86 impala had a nasty habit of tiring to kill him, <i>ungrateful whore</i>. He backed it out of the drive way and eased it to face parallel with the curb then gunned it. He raced at least 50 mph down the neighborhood streets, until he final was at the mouth of it all. He turned and started for his favorite place in the world, an oasis in the concrete desert.<br/>
<br/>
He drove up to the parking lot and got out of his car. He locked the doors with remote, just one of the extra features he added, there he waited. He was early, he was always early, but the restaurant didn't need him, he need it. Emily Dickson would write a poem about this if this was her time. </span>
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