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The rain starts to fall. In a microphone, it’d be loud as clumsy feet. Rain’s always louder in the movies, Izzy thinks, except when they talk.

The yard’s gone to hell. Weeds sprout in some places, but it’s the leaves that rule: brown and dry, inch-thick, a sheet pulled over dead grass. Izzy doesn’t care. He left the mulcher behind, and there it’ll stay, rusting in the shed. Comfortably wrapped in unreachability, she doesn’t touch it. Doesn’t want to. Why? Together they were epic. What is she, alone?

Worthless, a haiku, her opening line bland as “the rain starts to fall.”