I looked across the yard toward the backside of a line of buildings on Powers Street. Beyond the fence separating the yards I could see the upper story of a two-family house. A Mr. King lived on the top floor (we had checked the doorbells); and when we got off a good shot that landed on his roof he'd come out and look around like he was trying to figure out how paint cans were landing on his roof like he was wondering whether or not they were just falling out of the sky. After a direct hit, we ran back into the house and watched him from my bedroom window.

"This is great. How's he going to figure?"

"You can never tell." I leaned over the tree.

"Get your ass off the tree, man. Let's shoot her."

"It's my tree," I said.

"Man," he said. "Come on. This'll be great."