Larry Nailer lived down the street. He was older than me. I was six, he was eight. Larry and I cut a worm open once. At least, we started to cut a worm open once. Sort of hard to explain. Something else happened.

It was Saturday, I remember, early afternoon. I was picking dandelions out of the yard. Larry walked by. He said, hey. I said, hey. A pinkish-red thing squirmed in his hand. Wanna help me dissect a worm, he asked. 

I was surprised. Elated. Thrilled. Larry Nailer, I assumed, didn’t know I was alive. I was also unclear how “dissect” was defined. And what it entailed. But I thought he was cute. I wanted Larry Nailer to like me. I wanted to impress him so I said, okay.

The worm wiggled on, unaware of its fate. Larry took out his Swiss Army knife. And that’s when it happened. Pictures popped in my head, images straight from John Carpenter’s dreams. I tugged Larry’s sleeve. I said, what if it screams?

He looked at me—how can I put it—as

There's very little except fading memory.

My dog's losing patience with me.

I'm not holding up my side of the master-pet relationship anymore.

Not enough treats. More walks required. Too much laying around while I endure.

Ive got my new favorite song on repeat. It's their one.

I had the one good song.

Every other was an attempt.

Toss them into the canyon after all the work.  After all the, "I wish I knew." 

After all the,

When you went in or out of Ross’ Grocery

the bell on the door would slap at the glass 

so hard sometimes you thought it would break

and on really cold days 

Mr. Ross would come out of the back of the store

say cold enough for ya

and give you a cup of hot cocoa for free

the cocoa always had marshmallows in it

and Ross’ store had a drink machine

with a slot for Yoo-hoos

you put in a quarter and got