Cherie Hunter Day
He doesn’t drive. He depends on his roommate to get him to the job site and his sister to pick him up most afternoons. Today he’s on the crew hauling wheelbarrows of dried sod and dirt from someone’s backyard to the debris box parked in the front yard. Each dump load generates a dust cloud that drifts across the cul-de-sac: its dry reach shaped by an imperceptible breeze. Caked with dust he pauses for a few minutes behind the sparse foliage of a Scots pine to watch the next-door neighbor in her car. He waits. The sirens going off inside him.
night shrinking to fit the focal point