She mills about the front yard, sweepin the dust. Grass ain’t grown there in three summers. He sits on the rickety porch, rockin in his chair. His drink’s gettin warm. Where’d he put those nails?

Rabbit Hash, Kentucky. Nother summer comin round. Been waitin for them ice meltin days. Better than just sittin around waitin to die. They’re twenty feet apart but he ain’t talked to her in four days. She cooks but she don’t eat. They don’t need to talk cause there’s nothin to say anymore. The wind blows and they can hear his laughter.

In his dreams he hears the splash. In her nightmares she hears their only child scream. Horror upon horrors, an evil legend’s all-too-real whiskers wavin at your terrified face. The days pass by, each a marathon, each a trial, and turn into years. Once upon a time they were good at lovin together, and they thought they were good at parentin together too, but they’ll never be good at bein lonely together. Just weren’t cut out for it, I reckon.