Isaac Macedo’s daughter continued to mangle the spoon about in the pitcher of lemonade, trying to scoop out the fly that had landed in the fresh brew, each ripple and wave leaving the fly somewhere new, on some glacier, on some seed, still in the yellow meant to be swallowed. Isaac thought of taxidermy. Thought of the pinning and analysis of corpse and form. He swam in his thoughts to avoid the thought of the fly in the lemonade.

A woman approached the lemonade stand with her evening groceries. She was built like an unsharpened pencil. Had on a long-pleated skirt. Dazzlingly red lips.

“Why, isn’t this nice!” she said with hands to her face and a suburban lisp.

“Hello Miss Parker,” said Isaac’s daughter. “Would you like some lemonade?”

Miss Parker avoided looking at Isaac. She continued looking at the spoon swirling. The little girl hoped the swirling would distract from the fly in the pitcher. Isaac wanted Miss Parker to look at him.

“How much is it?”

“Twenty-five cents,” said Isaac.

“Oh!” Miss Parker said, still looking at the lemonade. “Let me get some change.” Miss Parker reached into her alligator purse. Sparkling green.

She made small talk. “It’s nice of the fire station to let you set up shop in front of it.”

“Real nice,” said Isaac’s daughter. “Daddy was able to pull a few strings.”

Miss Parker handed a quarter to the open palm of the daughter, but looked at Isaac as she said, “I bet.”

Isaac’s daughter handed Miss Parker a plastic cup of lemonade. Her dad looked down at the fly. Its wings still feigning ascension.

Isaac’s daughter waved to Miss Parker. “You have a good day now!”

Miss Parker looked at Isaac. She was fascinated by him. She spoke to his daughter as she looked. “You as well.” And she walked away with the heaving bags of groceries underneath her, the bountiful weight.

Isaac grasped the spoon and gave it his try to get the fly out of the lemonade. His daughter counted and recounted the three quarters they had collected so far.

Isaac Macedo was once fire chief of the town of Tamburlaine. He had received severe burns trying to help people out of a burning apartment complex. The scars were apparent. His daughter saw him now as a man made of mountains and earthquakes. Isaac saw himself as a man made of nothing. The station let him have some time off to sort things out despite the fact it was a volunteer fire station.

Isaac continued, growing red in frustration, trying to get the fly out of the pitcher. His daughter now took to flipping a coin and playing heads or tails with herself. She knew her dad was working through something, but she wasn’t sure how she could help.

A loud cacophony was rounding the corner from the fire station, approaching the crosswalk. They waited obediently despite the lack of cars. The crosswalk was a new installation in town following the drunk driver that caused the apartment fire. Its existence was to be admired.

The group consisted of high school jocks and cheerleaders, distinct in size but matching in their lettermans. Every sentence from them was the kiss of a zit — disgusting but welcomed because of how unexpected and sudden they were. The group of teenagers were talking about the upcoming game this Friday. Everyone expected the school to lose. It was self-fulfilling prophecy.

Isaac Macedo looked up from the lemonade pitcher at the group of teens, looking towards the noise. He immediately connected eyes with a young girl in the group.

The young girl was a cheerleader. She had a large red scar across her face. A white, glazed eye which she couldn’t see out of. Isaac recognized her from the fire at the apartment complex. She recognized him. She smiled.

A neon green man signaled to the group that they could cross the street. The young cheerleader left with the group of kin. Isaac Macedo’s daughter landed a quarter on heads, and the fly flew itself out of the pitcher of lemonade. Even the sugar grew sour.