“The storm started in the back of the house, not the front.” Hazel asserted the point for the hundredth time. She flopped down and reclined in a non-reclining plastic chair on the porch; an unlit cigarette dangled between the fore and middle fingers of her right hand and a Styrofoam cup of
WhitePort swung in the other. Zeke grinned widely, exposing his chipped front teeth. “You are drunk, Hazel. That storm you’re talkin’ about was your momma throwing a bucket of water on your head”
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