It was damp down under the blackberry bush, but Margaret liked it there; she was cozy, like a rabbit. It smelled clean'it was funny how dirt could smell so clean. She couldn't see in the dark which berries were ripe, but she nibbled on one anyway, puckered, spat. She rested her cheek against her arm and looked across the yard. A whoop and a stampede'the boys were running by. They must have spotted Biddy. The bright spot of the flashlight whirled. It made her dizzy trying to follow it. Hammock, grass, basketball net, grass. The flashlight made a photograph each time it hit something'little circles of backyard, punched out of time. The light lit the door of the toolshed and stayed there, wobbling. She couldn't tell which boy was which in the dark, but one held the flashlight, one went for the door. Tactics, she thought, impressed. They shouted and knocked over some rakes and buckets, but the shed was empty. Margaret laughed into her elbow. The boys stopped to scheme. They had to be...
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