It’s the 50s. You wear your dark Levis cuffed up six inches. You have a cowlick. There is a birthday party you won’t attend after a bad haircut. Your mother says, Button, it’s not the end of the world. But the weathervane says, Button, the end is near. It says the sky’s gone yellow with twisters. Small white stars are invisible all day, but you hear them chatter like teeth. Button, they say, why not play with the others? Look at them, having a fine time. But you wish the devil on the neighbors. You wish them nothing to pin the tail on. You wish the children snatched up in the funnel, paper punch cups still in their hands. The devil won’t call you Button. He says if you must be haunted, at least be unashamed.