Servants of the Storm by Delilah S. Dawson Page B

my hair.
    And then there’s the neighbors. Sometimes I just have to deal with growled death threats from Axel the German shepherd, and sometimes it’s drunken catcalls from the middle-aged Duvall brothers who live two doors down. Worst of all, though, are the old people who want to reminisce about how great the street used to be and tell stories about my grandmother, when she still lived around the corner. It didn’t bother me so much when I was on my meds. I was zoned out anyway. But before the meds—and now—I just dreaded it. It hurt too much.
    The can rumbles behind me on its bad wheel. The night has gotten even colder, and I move fast, hoping I might not have to talk to a single soul. Maybe the chill has driven the lot of them indoors, Axel included. And that’s when I hear a methodical sort of slobbering, and I pause and slump over in defeat. I can’t turn back, because he’s already heard the can, and he’ll just call me by his favorite stupid nickname until I come back.
    “That you, Lovey Dovey?” an old man’s voice calls sweetly, and I steel myself to walk past the big pecan tree and into sight of Mr. Hathaway’s backyard.
    My mama calls him the scourge of Gordon Street because every single person on our alley has asked her to do something about him. She’s not on the HOA, but people around here seem to think that lawyers actually have power. Unfortunately, there’s nothing she can do; he’s ornery and settled in his ways. The last neighbor who threatened him had to move after lightning struck his house and burned it to the ground. That lot now sits empty, charred black.
    Mr. Hathaway’s home is in disrepair, with crooked shutters and broken windows and a roof that rains shingles when the wind’s up. I’m kind of amazed Josephine didn’t flatten it. His yard is so overgrown with weeds that you can barely see the back door. And his slobbery old basset hound, Grendel, takes a two-pound dump on somebody’s doorstep every morning. All that, and you still have to put up with talking to him while you’re taking out the trash.
    “Yes sir, Mr. Hathaway,” I say, putting on my sweetest Southern accent. “How you doing tonight?”
    He watches me from his backyard, waiting beside a cheap metal fire pit, its glow illuminating a face I’d rather not see. He’s crouched on an old lawn chair next to Grendel, who’s licking the old man’s feet over and over again—hence the methodical slurping. It’s a sight I’ve suffered before, and it’s a small mercy that I don’t have to see it in detail now, thanks to the shadows. My back porch lights almost reach his fence. Almost.
    “Well, I’m fit as a fiddle,” he says. “Thank you for asking. How are you?”
    “I’m doing fine, thank you,” I lie. And then I wave and walk briskly away before he can say anything else. I know he’s going to catch me on my way back, but I should at least be able to dump the trash first and not stand there, freezing to death and breathing in the stench.
    Three more dark houses to go, and then I abandon our can with all the others at the end of the fence. Something rustles farther up, and I grab a stick and throw it into the shadows. A dark shape leaps out from between two cans and lands in the grass at my feet, and I screech and lurch back and almost fall over. The opossum looks at me like I’m an idiot and sashays off with its long, creepy tail in the air, a stripped and broken chicken carcass dangling from its mouth.
    Three houses down I can already hear Mr. Hathaway laughing at me.
    “Bless his heart,” I say to the sky, reminding myself to be patient. From what I hear, Mr. Hathaway wasn’t quite right in the head before he got old. He’s only been worse since Josephine, but my nana always told me to show him respect, or else.
    “Lovey Dovey, are you makin’ friends with a possum?” he says as I step into view. “Back in my day we would’ve eaten that varmint for supper.”
    “I already had a Hot