Thank you all for coming back after our unfortunate interruption last week.

We received a number of letters and packages of ointment and salted meat, each wishing

brother Reed, a safe and speedy recovery.

Truly, we are blessed by our congregation. The story must be told.

The story must be told. Brother Reed, how are you feeling today? Thank you, Sister Colista. I am indeed much better. The story, when it enters a body, does not do so gently. The body is like a water balloon or an unlubricated condom, and the story fills us until we are like to burst.

But I have survived the influx of story, and Deacon Adam, inspecting my gaping mouth, told me I only bit off a little sliver of tongue.

I am grateful the story did not demand I chop. Clean off, because I would have.

Excellent news, brother Reed. Well, I am sure our congregation is eager to hear the final words of this story.

Please, if the story so impels you.

Thank you, Sister Callista. A continuation of the House of Crispo. When the father entered the room again, the child who was once crying was now a resolute,

if sniffling, little soldier. He stood behind his father, back straight, face beat red.

The mother and the sleepover guest left alone to watch the movie while the punishment went on, sat together

on a couch cushion on the floor.

Mickey has decided to play the piano for everyone, Mr. Crispo announced.

Isn't that right?

The boy looked at Mickey as he nodded his head, snot running down his left nostril.

Though they were not friends entirely, he felt a strange pity for the red-faced boy.

Yes.

Mickey sniffled.

I would like to play the piano.

The boy did not know Mickey could play the piano.

He never mentioned it, never played it in music class, didn't listen to songs like some of the other kids did

...