Read by Stephen Wedd
Bob Bradbury from next door was sitting in the swing seat on our porch, rocking himself back and forth like a man possessed.
"If I hadn't known how to make French toast none of this would have ever happened," he said, not for the first time. One of his broad, brogue-clad feet was planted squarely on the porch while the other pushed against the screen door. Staring and rocking, just staring and rocking; so that the whole seat complained with a creak and a whine and I felt the boards beneath us rock like a boat. He was beginning to annoy me.