The Boy on the Porch

The young couple found the child asleep in an old cushioned chair on the front porch. He was curled against a worn pillow, his feet bare and dusty, his clothes fashioned from rough linen. They could not imagine where he had come from or how he had made his way to their small farmhouse on a dirt road far from town.
“How old a boy is he, do you think?” the man asked.
“Hard to say, isn’t it? Seven or eight?”
“Small for his age then.”
“Six?”
“Big feet.”
“Haven’t been around kids much.”
“Me neither.”
The man circled the house and then walked down the dirt drive, past their battered blue truck and the shed, scanning the bushes on both sides as he went. Their dog, a silent beagle, slipped into his place beside the man, sniffing the ground earnestly.
When the man and the dog returned to the porch, the woman was kneeling beside the old cushioned chair, her hand resting gently on the boy’s back. There was something in the tilt of her head and the tenderness of her touch that moved him.