It was Doug’s turn to make breakfast, and he plugged in the waffle iron and mixed the batter while Tritia went outside to do her morning watering. He stirred the waffle mix absently. The screaming bothered him. Billy had never had a nightmare of that magnitude before. Even after they had calmed him down, convinced him it was only a dream, he was still pale and trembling and he seemed reluctant to let them leave. But he refused to tell them what the nightmare was about. Doug had pressed him, but Tritia had told him with a slight tug on the arm that the questioning could wait until a more opportune time.

Billy had slept the rest of the night on the couch downstairs.

The batter mixed, Doug moved into the living room and peeked out the window. He had placed a letter in the mailbox late yesterday afternoon before Howard came over, a long detailed answering letter to Don Jennings, catching him up on the milestones of his life over the past decade. The red flag on the box was down now, and he glanced over at the clock. Six-thirty-three. The mail was being delivered earlier every day. And on a Saturday. He thought the post office had discontinued Saturday service.

He walked outside onto the porch, down the steps, and up the drive. Last night’s storm had not materialized, passing over Willis without even bothering to say hello, but it had left behind it some hellacious humidity. By the time he reached the mailbox, he was already starting to sweat. He opened the metal door. His letter was gone and in its place was a thin white envelope with striped blue trimming addressed to Trish.

“My tomatoes!”

He could hear Trish’s cry from the road. He hurried up the drive to where she stood in the garden, hose in hand. She looked at him and pointed to the plants at her feet. “The javelinas got my tomatoes again!” She kicked the ground. “Goddamn it!” Javelinas had eaten her tomato plants each summer for the past three years. Last year, the tomatoes had been greenish red and almost ripe when the wild pigs had raided the garden. This year, Doug had made a little chicken-wire fence around the garden to keep the animals out, but apparently it hadn’t worked.

“How are the other plants?” he asked.

“Radishes are okay, zucchini is salvageable, cucumbers are all right, cilantro and the herbs are untouched, but the corn is completely ruined. Damn!”

“Need some help?”

She nodded disgustedly. “We’ll redo what we can after breakfast. I’ll just finish watering right now.”

“We could set traps if you want. Hobie knows how to do it.”

“No traps,” she said. “And no poison. I hate the little bastards and I want them to die, but I don’t want to be the one to kill them.”