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I saw him on our road, walking in pink crocs, wearing only a loose diaper and a tiny T-­‐shirt with an orange stain. It was cold out that morning, still winter, only February after all. I was wearing full running regalia including lined gloves, two pairs of socks, and had my sweatshirt hood pulled over my cap and tightly tied. I had skipped the scarf that I sometimes wound round my neck and up to my chin but I wanted it. 

When I had put the coffee on it was dawn, a lovely dawn with a thumbnail moon in a pale purple mist, just between the two tallest pines, full of promise for a nice day. But now it was light out, and it had clouded up and become quite cold, He shouldn’t be alone, on an empty road, much less wearing only shorts. I wasn’t sure of his age, but surely he wasn’t more that two or three. 

I had to think about his name, it was odd, one of those untraditional names that were common these days, like Brimley or Fletcher, or Tungsten. Was it Calder, like the mobiles? Colby, like the cheese? Then it came to me, Cauldron. Wasn’t that what the witches stirred their brews in? Boil, boil, toil and trouble.