Through the trees two miles south of Tahoe, and two paces from the shotgunner, a radio technician was kneeling in the mud with his hands tied behind him. The wet mush soaked through the knees of his khaki slacks, but every time he adjusted his posture the shotgunner would step over and deliver a swift kick to the small of his back. The technician would hunch over in pain, silent, and then settle back on his knees.

This had been the pattern of four hours, ever since the rainfall began. The shotgunner carried a gray umbrella with him that pattered loudly; the technician had only a burlap sack, drawn tightly at his neck. There was no conversation. The technician knew better than to speak, ere he feel the shotgun pressed up against his head again. So his discomfort endured in silence, and he didn't dare cry.

Slowly, a faint rumbling hum caught his attention, and came close, and he reckoned it was a car. It stopped approaching at a point, and he heard the door open, followed by struggled footsteps through the sucking mud. A young voice, girlish and chipper, rang out like singsong.

"Te-e-e-e-elagram for ya, Mr. Sturnwick!" A grunt, then a shuffle of papers. Then, a gruff voice, "Much obliged, Lydia. Scram 'fore you catch a cold." Then someone seized the sack and tore it off, and the technician was able to see at last.

The first sight he caught was of a young girl, clutching an umbrella, peering at him curiously. She had hair like springtime and moony eyes, smiling at him. She was easy on the eyes, and he weakly smiled back until Mr.Sturnwick seized a fistful of hair and jerked his attention to him. "Eyes on me, creep." The girl laughed, indifferent to his plight, and moved back towards the idling car. Once she was gone, Mr. Sturnwick spoke.

"I just got the word that you're gettin' off of this scot-free. You understand that, Frank? You're gettin' a second chance." Frank, who was the technician, nodded with apt wide-eyed focus. He didn't appear scared, but he was certainly listening. Mr. Sturnwick continued. "I don't know why you got it, but you hear this nice and clear: if you come around the Furne girl again, you're cooked like a goose, and I'll be the one pullin' your fuckin' feathers. It ain't my buisness to know why you're being let go, but sixteen year old girls ain't none of your concern no more. Understand?" Before the could whimper out his reply, Mr. Sturnwick gave him another kick to the back. "Shut the fuck up."