There hadn’t been any pesky children when she’d moved in. There hadn’t been any children at all, nor any parents: hers had been the only house for miles. But time marches, and houses are built, and couples move in and nature takes its course.
Now the children were everywhere. On the street, in her yard, in the woods where she’d once sought the ‘Wine Of The Mother’ at her convenience. They came to the door and knocked and ran away. They pulled down her mailbox, not that it ever held mail. There were even eggs once. Her forbearance was tested, then eroded, then exhausted.
It wouldn’t be death. Death would attract attention.
Chicken pox was perfect, but they couldn’t get it all at the same time. Perhaps a few ear infections? And diarrhea. Definitely diarrhea for that Perkins boy, the one with the smart mouth who’d pulled poor Frisky’s tail.