Through a knothole she can see dog shit and half a cement block. The tree leans over the fence as though trying to escape and in the fall it rains apples as thick as bribes, which she collects furtively in the embroidered hem of her apron. She bakes pies to the screech of reverb and pounding bass, fretting away the evenings alone. Then she wraps up her fear with a slice of goodness in a clean square of cheesecloth and lays it all down on his porch. You bring me a motherfuckin pie? he shrieks through the shredded screen door.