Grandpa's Hashtag

The six-year-old dragged his plush dog on the floor, holding it by the ear. He squeezed a shining silver rod in his other hand. “What do you have there?” she asked. Moritz stopped, turned away from her, and wrapped the rod around his plush toy. “Moritz?” Anna put a lid on the pot. She walked to the door. “I can’t show,” Moritz said. He shook his head, but it didn’t stop there; the “no” traveled through him. The rod fell to the ground with a loud bang. A knife. Anna leaped forward and lifted it from the floor. She looked at the knife. She took a deep breath. Held it. Anna tossed the knife by the door and wiped her hand on her trousers. She kneeled. Grabbed Moritz’s arms. “Where did you find it?” “B-Basement. It was in Grandpa’s box.” “You can’t go to the basement alone.” “Why?” “Because a box may fall on your head.” “I like looking in boxes,” Moritz raised the plush dog up, then dropped his arms. The dog’s head hit the floor. Anna opened her mouth. Said nothing. “Why Grandpa had a knife with a hashtag?” Anna’s hands shook as she plucked a hair off Moritz’s shirt. She looked at the floor. “I want to show it to Jonas,” Moritz said. “No!” Anna held his face in her hands. “Look at me! Look!” Moritz looked. “You can’t tell anyone about the knife. Not Jonas. Not in school. Not in the family. Nobody. Do you understand?” “Why?” “Because it will make lots of people very angry.” “Jonas won’t be angry.” Moritz wiped his nose on the dog’s fur. “His parents won’t let you play with him anymore.” “Why?” Anna heard the hiss of the soup boiling over onto the burner. She stood up and walked to turn off the stove. She turned towards Moritz. He sat on the floor. Knife in both hands. Bit the dog’s ear. “Why are there thunders on the knife?” “Lightnings.”