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Show 122 managed, only to take away. That night, it was remarkably dark; their street, the new neighborhood, almost a still life, motionless and quiet. Hunt stirred only once, to a sound vaguely like the rattling of a door. In the morning, though, new events began, new circumstances. When Hunt -- Leah with the sheets over her still, in bed -- when he walked outside for the paper just before seven, he saw Andi Pierson, wearing a two-piece, lime-colored bathing suit, watering her lawn. "Oh, hi," she said. She waved. "Good morning," Hunt said. He felt sheepish. In a rush, he tried to hype himself to apologize for all the indiscretions of his vision. But if he were a Realist - or to be a Realist . . .! Confusion swamped the small canoe of his apology. "You know what?" Andi Pierson asked. She seemed forgiving, cheery. "Please," Hunt said, probably, he thought, meaning please go on. "Lane found out about your picture," she announced. "Oh, well . . ." Hunt's mind swam. "Well, the thing is, I thought . . ." But it was an unfinished sentence. "And do you know what he said?" What was coming? Anecdote? Horror? "What?" Hunt asked, "No, I don't. What?" "He said, 'Well, that blankety-blank will either turn those blankety-blank pictures over to me, or I ' l l blankety-blank burn his blankety-blank house to the ground."' Her report had a broad smile - Hunt expected, almost, |