In the lonely parts of the museum, among the sad objects gathering dust, Cal pulls down his pants. The guard thinks it’s just more dumb art.

The kid lets the lawnmower roll down the hill. He watches as it destroys years of careful pruning. You’re not paying me enough lady, he says

The air is fresh, the promise of something lovely in it, of magic. And then the wind shifts. And he is reminded he lives next to a pig farm.