The mailbox, cleaner and taller than the others, said Dorset.

The biblical punishment, the rocks in the hands of the wrathful, chipped away at the white paint of the fence,

while the kitten clung to the apex, flinching with each knock.

The animal's terror was apparently enough to keep the fence interesting on a warm Alabama evening,

when nothing more than getting cool and staying cool was of any interest to anyone else on the street.

If the people were home, they weren't out front.

The boy was alone.

Alone except for Bill and Sam.

Bill Driscoll's horse added to the haze as it clopped up next to the Dorset mailbox.

Hello there, young man, Bill said.

The kid didn't look up.

Another rock hit the fence.

Kid, we're looking for summit, Sam called out.

You're in summit, the boy said.

This time turning, his eyes darting back and another rock bounce before the kitten could jump.

No, the mountain, the little mountain, Summit, Bill clarified.

The boy pointed, up the road and past town, a mountain grew.

Well, the mountain, it was a middling hill, but for a land as flat and

swampy as the town, it might as well have been a mountain. Ah, there it is. Thanks, kid,

Bill smiled, but the buggy didn't move. Hey, as a thanks for helping us out. Do you like candy,

Bill asked, still flashing his mostly toothy grin. He almost lost one of those teeth.

When the boy launched a rock at his face, Bill yelped and gripped his eye. Go get him,

...