He arrived home from school, and entered the house, into its dead feeling. The hall as usual littered with purple Post-Its that had lost their stick. The first of his mother’s notes read “EAT,” followed by a sprinkling of others darkened with arrowheads that pointed to the kitchen.

It rains all over them. Their hair and their clothes droop. Their bare feet touch the pavement. Droplets cling to their noses. They don't duck and run. These kids. Even their underwear is soaked. The place reeks. Manure and corn dogs and Tom Thumb Donuts. Wet belly buttons and Tiger Boy and diesel fuel and cows. Beer and the breath from Tiny Tina's nostrils.