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In the middle of the night Brin and I heard shouts.
We turned off the lights to see across the street:
a dozen people fighting in the church yard, green
and yellow by the dim street lamp, carrying bar-
stool legs, mop handles. It seemed the yard was a meeting-
place. Two cops shouted “Stop it, stop it!” Brin and I
stepped outside, ignoring the impulse to run off
at the mouth. The police sounded like small children
talking to bigger children. Making no noise,
we crouched behind the brick pillars on our front porch.
I saw the swing come from behind, connecting solid
as hitting a baseball, and a man fell face-down.
His head sounded cracked open. Brin whispered, “Oh no,
oh no” and barely touched my forearm with the ends
of his fingers, as if he’d stopped the car too fast.
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