Tornado girl storms out of the single-wide rusted fabricated home and brushes herself off. She glances back at the slightly off-kilter rectangular vessel of domestic chaos with the washing machine lurching precariously out the front door, falling onto the rotting deck. Two hound dogs yeowl and scramble off with their tails tucked, then turn to watch.

She straightens her golden belt around her waist and strikes a match on the bottom of her green boot. She tosses the flame onto the rotted wood and whirls once. Sometimes moving is hell, but that's what friends are for.

Ciao!

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