“Old Man let his head rest on the back of the couch. ‘It’s the music. It makes me nervous, and I’m just listening. I can’t imagine being responsible for playing it . . .’
Mrs. Lee looked at him. ‘I never understood the music.’
They both got quiet; outside, the rumble of cars sounded like people arguing.
‘I want them to be better than us, Lee.’
Mrs. Lee looked at Old Man and imagined rain falling down his red skin. She wondered if it colored the ground as it fell, if it took pieces of him as it hit the ground. ‘I want them to survive themselves.'”