Зима тревоги нашей

           ForSaturday-morning-Fourth-of-July-weekend,therewerefewpeopleabout.Astranger—oldman—wentby,carryingafishingrodandagreenplastictacklebox.Hewasonhiswaytothetownpiertositalldaydanglingalimpstripofsquidinthewater.Hedidn’tevenlookup,butIforcedhisattention.

           "Hopeyoucatchsomebigones."

           "Nevercatchanything,"hesaid.

           "Striperscomeinsometimes."

           "Idon’tbelieveit."

           Ared-hotoptimist,butatleastIhadsetthehookinhisattention.

           AndJennieSinglerolledalongthesidewalk.Shemovedasthoughshehadcastersinsteadoffeet,probablyNewBaytown’sleastreliablewitness.Oncesheturnedonhergasovenandforgottolightit.She’dhaveblownherselfthroughtheroofifshecouldhaverememberedwhereshehadputthematches.

           "Morning,MissJenny."

           "Goodmorning,Danny."

           "I’mEthan."

           "Courseyouare.I’mgoingtobakeacake."

           Itriedtogougeascarinhermemory."Whatkind?"

           "Well,it’sFannieFarmerbutthelabelfelloffthepackagesoIreallydon’tknow."

           Whatawitnessshewouldmake,ifIneededawitness.Andwhydidshesay"Danny"?

           Apieceoftinfoilonthepavementresistedthebroom.Ihadtostoopdownandliftitwithafingernail.ThoseassistantbankmicewerereallymousingthehourwithCatBakeraway.TheyweretheonesIwanted.Itwaslessthanoneminutetoninewhentheyburstfromthecoffeeshopandsprintedacrossthestreet.

           "Run—run—run!"Icalledandtheygrinnedself-consciouslyastheychargedthebankdoors.