he sky was the color of a three-day-old bruise. A strong wind gave new life to discarded papers. My sister and I dashed into the house as a sharp crack announced an apocalyptic downpour. I noticed something strange as I shut the door—a man stood alone in the street, holding a bottle up to the sky.
I ran to the window, but he was gone. I thought I’d imagined him. It wasn’t until I saw his photo on an ad for Snake-Oil Cure that I realized that Dr. Hurley was the man I’d seen that day, collecting the storm.
Mary Mann
