“Tooterson,” a little boy said, laughing. “Hey Tooterson.”
“Be quiet,” said his mom, sounding like she wished she were walking through the city alone.
The boy squirmed out of her clenching hand and ventured a little closer to the man who had just farted or burped tremendously. The man crouched against a building, a sweltering pile of black clothing and dry, rashy skin.
“Tooterson,” said the boy, a little too loud, and when the man turned, he ran back to his mother, giggling fearfully.
The whole heap of clothes began to shake. “Tooterson?” the man bellowed, then erupted into laughter.