THE ROAR OF A LAWNMOWER woke Myrtle up the next morning. This was shocking for a couple of different reasons. The first was that Myrtle never woke when it was light outside—it was always dark, no matter the season of the year. The second was that her ghastly yardman, Dusty, had apparently volunteered to cut her grass without being pestered.
Myrtle pushed the covers back, eager to feast her eyes on an eager Dusty. She pulled on her bathrobe, grabbed her cane, and hurried to the front of the house to peer out the side window where the mowing sounds were coming from. She was greeted by the sight of Dusty, looking a good deal more dapper and official than usual, mowing Erma’s lawn at an unheard of seven a.m.
“Is that a uniform he’s wearing?” muttered Myrtle to herself. It was unheard of for
