I am fourteen years old in Virginia. It is about to storm, and one of the goats has broken loose. I am chasing her. I hate her, and by this time, having failed in every way to entice her into my grasp, I am panting, red, and screaming in exaqsperation, but nobody pays any attention to me. Mother is out back, picking ripe fruits off the pear tree, collecting them in her skirt, because, "If I don't pick them, the storm will ruin them." she says, and, needless to say, we all think she is crazy. Tim is in the kitchen fixing something like blueberry pancakes with mustard and honey sandwiches on the side, but then, he is only five and a half. Dave, who is well into his seventh year, is repairing the lower right-hand pane on the front door, while at the same time trying to read a Black Beauty novel lying open on the floor beside him. Mother blew up at him a little while ago and slammed the door so hard the pane toppled out. That makes the fifth time this summer same pane every time. Dad is sitting on the porch ignoring us all, playing his guitar and singing bawdy French ballads, and sipping a beer. If I go up to him and say, "Pop, why can't we just let the damn thing run loose?" he will answer: "Are you tryin to teach your old man how to suck eggs?" Clouds are dark and it looks like a good blow. The goat winks at me and cavorts away, and I collapse and bang my fists on the lawn, and begin to bawl insanely. Later, after some thunder and a stiff wind, it is only raining. The main house is small, so I sleep in a big outside storage shack called the Tumble. I am surrounded by chicken dung, moth-eaten clothes, trunks full of old letters, and ragtag Christmas ornaments. I have my own corner with a bed, a bureau, a rug, and a chair. The door is open and I am alone. It is dark. In a moment the rain will stop, and the smell of dying roses will come over from the house. Fireflies will dot the warm night; a few may even be blown into me by a stray breeze. I sit quietly on the damp threshold of my Tumble kingsom, looking at the darkened house where my family is sleeping and that was eleven years ago, and it was the last summer we were all together. This book, then, is for Mother, Tim, Dave, and Dad.