A crack, and everything changes.
Miss Coakley appears in the window, a shrunken head framed by fizzes of grey-black hair. Behind her, the girls bob in unison, ponytails twisted on the top of their heads so you can’t tell who’s who.
Mike’s giggling with the sort of glee that bubbles into your words, climbing down to find more stones, and soon I can’t hear him, only the sharpness of that rock hitting the window. It sits in the dense quiet of an afternoon that is heavy with the weight of all the summer that has passed.
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