“You mean Patrick, right? You’re going to ask him.”
“I think you should do it,” Patrick said. “I think Jefferson would want you to speak for him.”
Jefferson agreed. “Yes.”
“We should both speak,” I decided. “You knew about the tree before I did, that someone wanted to cut it down, I mean.”
“Deal.” Patrick reached out for a handshake, all of about an inch and a half. “I’ll say something, too.”
Mr. Conehead obviously wanted a turn as well. Phil came stomping down the grass from his shop. “You’re going to get me on camera, right? Telling the world how these faggots are ruining my business.”
There were gasps, not just me this time. Then, even with at least sixty people in close proximity, it was suddenly quiet enough to hear one of the last birds of the evening tweeting. A young blond gi
