Tom knew nothing about writing:

For Tom, this was foreign territory. The letters he was familiar with were surrounded my numbers and operators in long for equations. Comforting riddles where every problem had an exact answer. This was new, difficult. He made awkward marks on the paper trying to hash out the thought that wouldn’t manifest. Crumpling another paper, he tossed it to the ever-growing pile by the bin. Why was this so hard? At this rate it would be easier to confess in person.

I was sure something unusual was happening down the street:

If the crooked driveway and the dead, crow infested tree weren’t a dead giveaway, the lighting strikes in broad daylight were.

“Spying on the neighbors again, dear?” mother asked pushing my binoculars out of my face.

“It’s not spying. They’re up to something.”

“I wish they would get up to painting their exterior but that’s besides the point. This is rude and just as suspicious.” She said pointing her figure at the small camp I had set up on the porch.

As she did, another bolt of lighting struck the roof of the house.

“Look!” I said jumping to my feet.

“Josephine.” Mom said throwing her hands on her hips.

Benny Dunn

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