"Uh - I don't know, they thought they were going to stop...they just left -"
His phone conversation is a mutter of persistence in the feud of money. Lounged out on the couch, red and green plaid, he sniffs in a sleepy retort.
"Matt and I just looked at the weather. He says it's supposed to only drop down to 40."
"50."
"He says 50."
And the phone conversation goes on, a heavy prattle back and forth on the reason of how and why and what if raveled about the dramatic rain pattering the keystone state, pattering our house, pattering away his plans.
"Well, that's 50 bucks down the drain."
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