THE SCREENED porch at the back of the house overlooked a runoff ditch, still water and leaves, and branches fallen and split, hunks of scrap concrete and bush grown at each lip; spring green leaves on the row, wide blossoms popped like sudden fog. He sat and pondered at the ditch, the cluster oak, late yellow leaves big as sheet maps thick in the air and splayed in the yard.

Curtis Rigby came up the steps and sat down on the porch. He wore gray pants that looked something from a space suit, four zipper pockets the length of each leg, and he was short, blue eyed, hair white blond and combed a stiff part. It looked wet, dry the same time. Terry touched a finger at the top.

What’s in there?

Curtis put a hand up and patted his hair.

Leave it man. I just did this.

It’s frozen or something.

Hair spray man. My sister told me about it.

What?

It’s in this metal can, you shoot it all over.

He moved his hand circles at his hair.

Keeps it in place. It looks like rain or something. Mist?

What’s it smell like?

I don’t know, flowers or something.

You just spray it on?

Yeah.

And then your hair doesn’t move? Yeah. For like a whole day Maybe more I’ve heard. A whole day? You’re making this up. Don’t bullshit me. No man. Some scientists invented it. Just recently. I’m sure there was an article in the paper. It’s an important development. I need to get some. You can buy it at the drugstore. Terry nodded and thumped a cigarette at the steps.

Curtis went off and he stayed on the porch and watched the dark. An air unit hummed on and kept, tires spun loud on the road when they passed the house and the floodlights put the shape of bobbed tree limbs against the wire screen. He heard children yelling on the baseball field. The lights above the backstop stayed all night.