On the corner, the father kept asking the son if he understood the meaning of the orange hand. Over and over again. And again.

And again.

“The orange hand.”

“The ORANGE HAND.”

His tiny son, in a fit of rebellious whimsy, insisted it was blue.

“Orange,” replied the father.

Again. “ORANGE!” he demanded, forcing the child to believe.

But it was red. The red hand of a don’t walk sign.

This man has killed his son.

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