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Hector was sprawled on the concrete. Nose inches from the scratchy surface he was watching the ants. He admired the way they traveled in almost perfect lines, but also deviated from their path as if they wanted to explore but instinct held them in check. Like little drunk soldiers. He had never liked the name Hector. Just so strange, not really American, but also most definitely American, like cold coke from the cornerstore on Beechnut and Braes. Mr. Cushings from World Lit class had told him that Hector was the name of a Greek god. A minor one. But when he looked it up later he found out that Hector was actually this really old warrior-prince-dude from Troy who got himself killed. Real smart that one. Got finished off by some jealous gods. Those gods were real PIAs too. Always fighting and changing sides and super jealous. Maybe it was better to be the warrior prince, even a dead one, than one of those peons. But he still didn’t like the name.

He was laying on the concrete because he didn’t want to go inside. And he also wanted to watch Ms. Marple. She lived across the street and drove a little red Honda civic. Everyday around 3 in the afternoon she would pull up to the curb in front of her house. She always carried three plastic shopping bags from Target with her. He wondered why someone needed to go to Target everyday. Maybe it was toilet paper. Maybe she was into excessive cleaning. Maybe her husband was incontinent. Maybe she had a kid who liked to wrap people’s houses every night. Maybe she kept a closet full of mummies and toilet paper was the only good substitute for linen bandages in this day and age. He had read about those mummies too. Real creepy, keep dead people alive like that. Old civilizations believed in some whacked up stuff. Those Greeks and Egyptians. Or she kept something else in those three bags. Something boring like her work files, or maybe the start of dinner for the kids, or maybe people’s souls. Though wouldn’t a briefcase be a better option for that? Maybe she was a closeted zombie. Maybe she kept a catalogue of people in a nice little index card file. Would she organize them alphabetically? Or geographically? Or by how tasty they looked? He also liked the fact that her house was pink. Not an ostentatious pink, just a nice comforting pink. It reminded him of summer again and strawberry lemonade. He must be getting thirsty, thinking of all these drinks. Hector yawned more out of boredom and the need to stretch his face than out sleepiness. The cicadas were out again. Real singers this time.

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