The milkman nodded, went back out, and stood on the porch for a moment. It would be a
fine day. The sky was already bluer than a baby’s eye, and patched with guileless little fair-weather clouds… the ones baseball players call “angels.”
He pulled the note from the newspaper holder and crumpled it into a ball. He put it in the
left front pocket of his white milkman’s pants.
He went back to his truck, kicking the stone from the hopscotch grid into the gutter. The
milk truck rattled around the corner and was gone.
The day brightened.
A boy banged out of a house, grinned up at the sky, and brought in the milk.