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           Itwasaroundoneo’clockthatafternoonwhenChurchcamebacklikethecatinthenurseryrhyme.Louiswasinthegarage,wherehehadbeenworkingoffandonforthelastsixweeksonafairlyambitioussetofshelves;hewantedtoputallofthedangerousgaragestuffsuchasbottlesofwindshieldwiperfluid,antifreeze,andsharptoolsontheseshelves,wheretheywouldbeoutofGage’sreach.HewashammeringinanailwhenChurchstrolledin,histailhigh.Louisdidnotdropthehammerorevenslamhisthumbhisheartjoggedinhischestbutdidnotleap;ahotwireseemedtoglowmomentarilyinhisstomachandthencoolimmediately,likethefilamentofalightbulbthatglowsoverbrightlyforamomentandthenburnsout.Itwasasif,hetoldhimselflater,hehadspentthatentiresunnypost-ThanksgivingFridaymorningwaitingforChurchtocomeback;asifhehadknowninsomedeeper,moreprimitivepartofhismindwhattheirnighthikeuptotheMicmacburyinggroundhadmeantallalong.

           Heputthehammerdowncarefully,spatthenailshehadbeenholdinginhismouthbackintohispalm,andthendumpedthemintothepocketsofhisworkman’sapron.HewenttoChurchandpickedthecatup.

           Liveweight,hethoughtwithakindofsickexcitement.Heweighswhathedidbeforehewashit.Thisisliveweight.Hewasheavierinthebag.Hewasheavierwhenhewasdead.

           Hishearttookabiggerjogthistimealmostaleapandforamomentthegarageseemedtoswiminfrontofhiseyes.

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