“Good, you’re just a pee-stain anyway,” says Paulie.

Looking into your hand, you see the short stick. The sticks are always the same – they come from the Mama’s apron. When you were little – littler anyway – that’s where the horded candies would come from. You’d see the Mama in the hall ways, flickering lights making thunderstorms in the chase games you played with the other boys.

“Mind you slow down!” she’d caution. “We don’t have no doctor no more if you break open your head.” Then she’d soften, and maybe if you listened, if you stopped and begged pardon, she’d reach into that apron and pull out a bit of sweet.

Now, it’s just the sticks.

This wasn’t the first time you’d put your hand in, reaching for her clenched fist, plucking blindly. Paulie drew short last time, and he’d been crowing about how big his thing was ever since. But he had an easy run – just 15 paces out the door to change the filters.

The stick is in your hand. So short. Too short. Drawn short on the well.

Paulie just smiles.