Just as she raised her whistle again to get his attention, a fat raindrop splatted against her cheek. Then another, and another.
A wild giggle erupted from her throat. “We did it! We tickled the clouds until they spilled their rain like laughter, right where we need it, when we need it. Pixies rock.”
“Huh,” the driver looked up at her, bewildered.
“Get your arse and that truck out of the way. Keep it moving, folks. Don’t stop to watch. This is a roundabout. That means drive around the fountain. Hey, don’t stop in the middle of the road. Get moving before the next fire truck runs over the top of you.”
This was her town. These were her friends.
Her bare feet barely touched the ground as she marched over to direct another group of cars into the proper lane. She danced to the Pixie music filling her heart and those of her friends.
IRENE RADFORD
