Pudding knelt by the marble urn, crying, pounding the soft grass with her hard, bony palms. The urn was inscribed as Chanalewa Fong, age 94. Pudding cried until there were no more tears to cry. Slowly opening her eyes, she saw that the sky was almost black. Switching her flashlight on, she wiped her tears away and began to slope home. Suddenly, she heard a loud Ker-RACK! and she whipped herself round, clenching her fists, ready to attack. But when she saw a silhouette of pigtails, long ears and a shirt flapping in the wind, she dropped the flashlight and ran up to it, wrapping her arms around its waist. This was the only thing that was gonna make her feel better.