Michael Malone - Weebly

the circle as if expecting a parade. At one end of the
green, teenaged boys tossed a football; at the other,
small children fell into somersaults while their young
mothers waited on benches. A couple in white took
pictures of Elijah's statue.
Earlier in the morning, Luke had knocked on Polly's
door and had said only, "Let's just go for a walk, all
right?" And she had said only, "All right." Neither
mentioned Joy. Upstairs Polly's father slept, mildly
sedated for the pain of his burns. Cecil Hedgerow's hair
was singed. His hands lay outside the sheet like two
white boxing gloves someone had placed there in
tribute. He deserved, he said, to sleep until noon. He
was a hero. Dozens of hands had slapped his back and
flashbulbs had popped spots in front of his eyes and a
microphone had been nudged under his nose to find out
how he had felt when his hair caught fire. "Hotheaded,"
he'd replied, with a sooty grin, and the little crowd that
ringed the camera had cheered.
Tonight when this moment was replayed on
television, Democratic party people in the district would
begin to wonder if Hedgerow, Dingley Falls's third