Gigel frolics around the yard. He’s not a child, but Agent 06. His age is the reverse of the number above, just like the house number on the gatepost.
He hopes for a quick nap in the hammock, calming the ideas that took him wandering through meadows and village fairs. The heat weighs him down and nudges him; otherwise, his mother can’t explain his sudden landing in the grass without some ancestral parachute. The sound of his fall brought everyone at the table to their feet. Branches broke heavily from the plum tree. They crashed down along with the would-be napper.
“I’m fine!” Gigel assures the spectators, as he gathers himself, with his hands, off the ground.