“Hey, Dill. What’s up?”

“Blah. I’m stressed.”

“‘Bout what?”

“My garden… money… life... Haha. I need a lobotomy.”

“I can do that.”

“What?”

“Yeah—-it’s hardly brain surgery.”

And so, looking into his eyes with a gentle smile on her face-—and his showing an appearance of slight confusion—-Margaret pulled the flathead screwdriver from her back pocket and swiftly thrust its flat blade and cool metal shaft through Dill’s skull, just between the eyes.

As he fell to the ground, the look of confusion turning to surprise and then fear and then a deep calm, the blood running down the contours of his face, flowing and pooling into the earth below, Margaret could see that her work was done.

Dill wasn’t stressed, anymore.

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