“We sure as ruddy heck ain't in Prentisstown no more," I say to Manchee under my breath.”

“Manchee comes outta the bushes and sits down next to me cuz I’ve stopped right there in the middle of a trail. He looks around to see what I might be seeing and then he says, ”Good poo, Todd.” ”I’m sure it was, Manchee.”I’d better not get another ruddy dog when my birthday comes. What I want this year is a hunting knife like the one Ben carries on the back of his belt. Now that’s a present for a man.“Poo,” Manchee’s says quietly.”

“Oh, aging is ruddy unbearable! The I's we were yearn to breathe the world's air again, but can they ever break out from these calcified cocoons?”

“But surely we are not allowed...""Allowed?" I counters. "We're allowed to do anything in this world until someone says we ain't allowed and that someone can back it up.”

“Spackle!” Manchee barks, tho he’s too chicken to attack now that I’ve held back. “Spackle! Spackle! Spackle!”“Shut up, Manchee,” I say.“Spackle!”“I said shut up!” I shout, which stops him.“Spackle?” Manchee says, unsure of things now.I swallow, trying to get rid of the pressure in my throat, the unbelieveable sadness that comes and comes as I look at it looking back at me. Knowledge is dangerous and men lie and the world keeps changing, whether I want it to or not.Cuz, it ain’t a Spackle.“It’s a girl,” I say.It’s a girl.”

“I was merely cursing, under my breath, God and man, under my breath, and the wet Saturday afternoon of my conception.”