87.

The gumballs have been running low ever since Manchester ran out of ammo. Now the lawn looks like a quantum rainbow, sniper perched on the lawn chair, thirsty for blue jay blood.

Manchester gets bored, spreads his rock collection on the tarp out back. He stands appraisingly, the passive judge, thin arms folded. Cairo’s been in the basement, sharpening his words; emerges, inevitably, and cocks his head at the assortment of stones. “What’re they all for?”

“Casting.”

Manchester is cute, and can destroy all kinds of housing.