Pool_1

more like " ow kkn eeul bwe oh ihhich," but he managed, "I need something cold to drink." "There's a Dairy Queen right down that road, son. Need help loading that mower in the van?" "Thanks, old man, but I can do it. Will you be here next week?" not knowing why he asked. "You bet. Somebody has to watch over you. Can't abide two young fellows croaking. Gabby's the name. Who might you be?" He muttered, "Call me Stu, short for stupid," then broke down with the correct answer that didn't seem to bring any response from the old guy who accepted the new version as if he had known it for years. Gabby was either a superb poker player, master of nuance, or a spirit, knowing too much. He had this off habit of scratching his left pectoral as he talked, "Marcus, sometimes you young'uns need to listen to what your parents warn you." "How did you know.." "Figures. Just figures." Later, days later, Marcus read, in the student newspaper, of the death of a graduate student who died while mowing a lawn. It didn't say whose, but it was clear enough from the town name. But that was later, right now his own dehydration was about to make him a statistic. "I need something cold!" God was listening.