The garden wilted last night beneath a shower of porcupine sneezes and elevated testosterone levels. The corn bled. The radishes radiated their dying irritations. The buttercrunch lettuce let us caress its leaves as it died while the sun crept over the driveway. The zucchini wept itself soft. We got our grilling tongs and squirting lapel flowers and cracked open cans of pink lemonade and waited, waited for the abrasive and inevitable return, our stomachs on edge, our callouses held out like shields.