Hurricane Garrett

How much can we control a force of nature?

"He's like a hurricane, Hank; and you always let him get away with it!"

"Come on, hon. He's just a kid; let him be one!"

"You're spoiling him."

"I think you're— "

Her face pinched down into an angry scowl. "You do nothing but watch and laugh. You see him barrel through the room, knocking furniture and knickknacks all from hell to breakfast, and you say nothing. He hides stuff from us, and you make a game out of it — Jesus, Hank, I still haven't found the remote he hid three days ago!"

Hank raised one eyebrow ironically and pointed to the coffee table that was cluttered with cooking magazines. "It's under the May edition of Country Cooking Connections, my dear little hoarder. It was you this time, not Garrett."

"Don't call me that, and don't try to change the subject! I don't care if he's six or sixteen, Henry Wilkerson: he has to have some rules!"

Hank frowned. "Quiet down; I don't want him to hear us arguing; I'll take a stand on that one!"

She fluttered a hand dismissively. "It wouldn't be the first time— "

Before she could finish, Hank's phone beeped a specific tone, and he pulled it out to look at it. Mary gawped at him incredulously. "A phone call? You're taking— "

His face sagged, and he turned the phone so Mary could see the text message:

         Garrett: Tell Mommy I'm sorry I'm so bad, Daddy.

He paused until she'd had time to read and reread it. Finally he threw the phone on the couch and moved toward the steps. He looked at his wife bitterly. "I guess your first new rule for him is that he has to learn how to hurt?" With that, he went upstairs to comfort their quietly weeping son.

NOTES: ▶︎

Word Count: 300
Submitted for "Daily Flash Fiction Challenge" 
Prompt: Use the words barrel, phone, remote