His ten-year-old sister was a broken thing.

"Different fathers," his mother said.

The broken thing’s name was Margaret and she flopped be-side him next to the car’s house, on the muddygrass.

Petey flopped the floppy parts. Floppy arms. Floppy legs. White socks with dirtmarks. One shoe. Black. Funny, only one.

The face was floppy too. Petey scootched on his bum to sit exactly beside it, to see which side the headflop was. Right. To the right. And he was on its left. If people would just not rush him, he knew left and right. Margaret said he didn’t. But she always said bad things about him. Like that word.

His mother also said the word, but she was too big to break. Petey leaned his head against the tree trunk, scratching his scalp against the bark. Tree bark. Dog bark. Same word. Funny. He did the scalp-scratch for a while. It felt good.

"You have no feelings," his mother said. He pulled at the fingers of the broken thing, counting. Cold. Tired. Hungry. Scared. Four. Four feelings. He could get more but not when he was tired. Four was a lot anyway. Two more than he had of eyes. One more than he had of loonies.