Their pudgy, tan fingers grab quickly, greedily. Some rip the sheets in the corners, at the edges. Their eyes are hardened black. Their hunger penetrates as they claw at all I have to offer.
And suddenly, it is no longer the first day of June but the last day of August. When the heat is unbearable, and the concrete burns your feet through the soles of your shoes.
Today, this day, I am the Ice Cream Man and the children have come to me. They beg to be saved from the white heat, from a world that is closing in around them.
There is nothing left, but still they stretch their sweaty palms out toward me.