Fled was excited. His hands shook; his eyes fluttered. "You know that weed wacker? Got it for my birthday? I just got it to travel -- skip -- along the grass for 10 seconds on its own, without me."

Rick looked up from his book. He was sitting on a barka-lounger, the one that used to be in his den, now in his backyard. "That's great."

"I'm heading over to Ron's. He doesn't believe me. He said he got his to do six seconds. He's been practicing for weeks. I'm going to prove it."

"A race," Rick said.

"What?" Fled said. He was brushing his hair -- crew cut, non-existent -- with his hand, and tapping his feet, one after the other.

"You're going to race him, with weed wackers."

"Yes. Exactly. Let's go."

"Tell me how it turns out," Rick said. He went back to his book. It was an old one, by Dennis Lehane.

"What is that?" Fled said, looking down at Rick's lap.

"A book."

"Right. Ok. I'll be back." He waved his arms excitedly above his head, parallel, the victory sign. "I'm kicking his ass."

Rick wondered if Fled would hurt himself. Like he had with the snow blower and, before that, the power spade. Rick shifted his position in his chair, slightly, to avoid the sun in his eyes....read more Rick and Fled