The whole family gathered around the fire for our seasonal burning of dried cornstalk. While my brothers and sisters were captivated by the swirling glow, my eyes were captured by the sky. Beyond the field of golden rye, a buzzard circled the pasture.

"This is not enough ketchup!" she screamed. The entire restaurant turned around to see her flip her table, root beer & fries flying. Most people murmured ill words about her, about the waste of root beer, about reasonable ketchup portions, but not me. I had fallen in love.

"Guys, it's really not funny anymore!" My voice echoes off the twisting wooden figures, but no others come out. I cross from tree to tree with the flashlight's narrow beam and watch it disappear into thick black fog. "Guys?" But all that replies is biting silence.

Jerry glanced down at the photograph in his hand, then back up again at the woman sitting alone at the back of the cafe.