Lisa McVay presents: Sprite & Crackers

On the north side of the bustling city lived a family named Snivers. They weren’t a large family, but they were a tight one. A pair of newlyweds. A beautiful baby girl.

Things were perfect for a long time. They had more happy times than most. Yet nothing is perfect forever.

When the little girl turned three, she came down with a horrible stomach bug. Her father hurried out of the house, convinced that she was toast if he didn’t go to the corner store and get something to make her feel better. Something like a Sprite. Or maybe some crackers.

He never came home again.

The little girl, for her part, she got better, even without the soda and the snack.

Her mother, however, did not recover as quickly. She was taken by surprise by the disappearance of her husband. Hour and hours she waited by the window, by the door, by the phone, waiting for his return. Waiting for some news. It never came.

A full six years later, she accepted that he was gone and she moved on. She remarried and left the state. Like her former husband, she didn’t return.

Their little girl grew until she was no longer little. She met a nice man in school and they married. Soon enough, they had a little one of their own.

This family lived in the same house that the wife had grown up in, the same house that once boasted a full set of parents. The house now possessed a full set of parents once more. That was why, when the little girl turned four and got sick, her mother was positively panic stricken over the possibility of her husband disappearing.

“Don’t be silly,” he said, trying to assuage her fears. “Why would I disappear? The store is only down the street. Come on dear, you don’t want to see our child suffer needlessly, do you?” But try as he might, he could not convince her that he would come back. So he stayed.

They waited a few more days but the illness seemed to get ever worse. “This is getting ridiculous,” the husband said, fear sharpening his tone. “She’s sick and needs some medicine. At the very least, something to help settle her stomach. Now I don’t want to hear about it anymore, I’m going out!”

The husband reached for the knob but, before he could grasp it, it began to turn on its own. He took two steps backward with surprise as the door burst inward.

An old man, stooped with a crooked back, stepped hurriedly inside. His long white hair and grey wispy beard fluttered on the breeze of his movement. The little sick girl pointed at the stranger with a short chubby finger.

“It’s grandpa,” she said with certainty.

When her mother squinted and took a closer look, she gasped and stepped back in alarm. The old man pulled out a small plastic bag from his pocket. The logo embossed on the side advertised a version of the corner store that had closed some years ago.

“Sorry I’m late, sweetie,” the old man said, but whether it was to mother or daughter, no one could tell. The mother noticed with a growing sense of dread that the old man’s hands were missing two of their fingers. He also bore a deep purple scar across his face. Cheek t0 cheek, like a Chelsea grin. His white eyes met hers and they glinted with glee and…something else.

“I’m finally home.”