86.

Rain clouds converged above the empty garden. The remains of a scarecrow’s stake wagged limply in the breeze, throwing its fragile shadow over parched crowns of soil. He’d caught the lizard on the sidewalk two evenings past, and already its tail, severed to give the slip, had begun to regrow. A tough hand of wind plucked the stake from the garden’s center, the shallow hole it left behind soon plugged by muddy water.

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