The hail thingies bouncing off Debi’s black umbrella looked like sweat flying off a cartoon guy’s head when he was supposed to be worried. Paul Sr. had once shown her a porn like that. A cartoon porn. The one Paulie later found. Guy so worried, watching his wife have at it with a big sailor or—­

It wouldn’t do. Wouldn’t do having Debi help. Or would it? It might. It wouldn’t. Paul had liked that one too much. Of all of them, he’d liked her best and stayed at her longest and gone back to her way after all the others were done. It was humiliating. That he should stay longest with the trashiest, strangest of all, always speaking kindly of her, as if he actually might—­

Old man. Stupid old man. Old man in love. Old man so happy, in his boxers, in front of the fan, telling her all about it, like she was supposed to be happy, happy for him, happy for—­

She waved Debi off.

We don’t need you, slut. We won’t have you.

She leaned against the Obernicks’ fence. Dirty fence. Someone should paint it.

“Ma?” Pammy said, trickle of blood running down her face. “You okay? Ma?”

She pushed Pammy off. She couldn’t breathe. When pushed off, Pammy stayed off. Pammy was like that. Sweet but weak. No bounceback. You could push her right off.

The fence gave way. The ground came up. Ouch. Cheap fence. She ought to sue those stupid Ober—­

She was on the ground now, severed bike pedal huge in her sight, ant crawling along it. The fence was up. Still up. Hadn’t given way. Only she had. Why the hell was she on the ground?

Oh God, something with her heart, something with her—

· · ·

The church bells at St. Caspian’s rang once, twice, three times.

Rain coming. What a drag.

She’d be stuck inside all day.

Across Pine, the Denisons’ sunflowers were bending in the breeze. Alma and what’s-her-name were standing hunched over like a couple of lady trolls. Mom troll and daughter troll, out on the troll town. On Troll Mother’s Day. How nice. How sweet. How weird.

One last swep.

Here it came.

Let it rain! Jesus, what a deluge! Bring it! Yes! Gorgeous! Memo from Mother Nature: I can be one crazy dame. Don’t piss me off, I shall instantaneously make Pine Street a river and back up the gutters and cast forth (whoa! dang!) a torrent of tiny pinging crystals, which you humans call “hail,” but which I, Mother Nature, call “my wondrous display,” which shall resound or rebound to the music I play, such that they shall—whoa, dang, fuck!—ricochet up off the rain-slick black street and come bouncing back as high as your waist, falling alike on the lowly and the—­

Walnuts!

Golf balls!

Sheesh!

Damn!