When Jake’s home randy from trucking and candy, Flo’s amphibious—a moist, round thing. She sticks her skinny limbs out rigid—her rigor mortis impression. Her bulging eyes stare at the ceiling as Jake orbits her like he’s assessing tires on a used pickup. Once, she took a stab at dropping from the sky, crash-diving to the floor. A tiny, whiny whimper and a faux wing flutter, and Flo lay motionless on her back, buggy peepers squeezed shut. Jake rolled over, defeated. She covered herself with dry leaves and twigs. When he reached for her again, he couldn’t find her.
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