I was still stunned and in shock as I stood in the stark sunlight shining right down on Pete's grave site. It was like the sun was trying to send me a message or something. Oh well. I don't believe in stage lighting cues.
I stared down at the shrinking gun, letting it grow warm in my hands from the heat of my excitement and nervousness.
That's odd, I thought to myself thoughtfully.
But there it was, in fine, fine, minuscule print: "Partial Shrinking."
What on earth does that mean?
From the sidewalk a few feet behind me, I could hear the panting sounds of the neighbor lady hobble-jogging past my house. I turned around, ignoring the loud party mix of danger theme songs universal to television shows, gun in my hand.
"Hi, Neighbor Lady!"
She stopped in midrun; don't know why she'd STOP if she thought I had a gun. She screamed.
"Oh, honey, this ole thang? It's just a toy."
I twirled it around. I threw it up in the air, caught it on my nose, let it slide smoothly down my shoulder and arm, hopped it onto my knee, bopped it to my toes, and then kicked it back into my hand. Globetrotters, watch out. Here I come!
The woman from next door smiled at me like she thought I was crazy, but cool. "Can you do that again?" she said breathily, and not from being too unhealthy to jog for ten minutes.
"Ooh, yeah! You know I can do it, girl."
I tossed it up into the air. It hit my nose. Fell to the ground. Bounced up in the air again. Went off prematurely.
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