On the fifteenth day of the rainy season, I was in the doorframe watching the mud pool in the garden with a Malboro in my hand. I felt defiant, in a way that I knew to be ultimately small, to be a human—a goddamn human—who built the roof over his head and cheekily lit a cigarette as the rest of the world turned to mush, like pulp washing down cement rivers.
The echo of feet bounding inside found me and soon Rachel came to the doorframe with a jar and pail, her raincoat already on.
“Worms!” She shook her head like that wasn’t what she’d planned on saying. “Can I play outside?” I told her sure as long as she stayed in the yard and away from the roses. She leapt over slick flagstones and into puddles like it was the first and last day of her life and, throwing the butt into the rain, I tried to remember the last time I felt like that.