How it opens
Saturday morning smelled of lilacs, warm dust, and planned trouble.
You came up the lane with your dead cat wrapped in a sack, minding your own business.
If you have come to laugh, Huck Finn, you can begin.
You look like a man doing time for somebody else's crime.
Thirty yards of fence and a bucket that dries faster than sympathy.
Choose
What did the cat die of?
Why is the fence yours to do on a Saturday?
Aunt Polly has her eye on you from the porch.