Last year, the police came twice to the house with the pool. Now they are fighting again. He yells, “Fuck, the miniskirt. Fuck the fucking miniskirt.” They’ve moved back into the dark parts of house so as not to be heard. Her voice is sharp. His deep. She might have screamed. Maybe not. They are quiet now. In the autumn, the police had him down the ground. “Just do it,” he said. “I will kill them all.” The boys’ voices echo as they walk up the hill with peach cobbler for the elderly woman who lives next door. Her dog has passed away. The boys return and say that it is her birthday today and that she will put a candle in the cobbler. Thank you. The man at the house with the pool is mowing the lawn now. Her sharp voice is quiet.

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