red daisies.

Rain pours. It's cool, a light, tingling kind of cool, and the rain pours in drops, thick and sparse through the streets.

"Do you want to share the umbrella?" I ask.

"Shit," laughs Percy. "I don't mind the rain. Umbrellas are useless, anyway."

"Don't mind?" I snort. "Forget 'don't mind'— funerals love rain less than you."

He laughs— "Maybe." Another laugh.

"Whyzat?"

"Huh?"

"Why do you love the rain so much?"

"I. . ." He stops, suddenly, then frowns. "I'm not sure."

He looks away, into the rain, and shoves his hands into his jean pockets. "I'm not sure."

The rain stops by lunch. He's distant the rest of the day, almost like he's not even there at all.