There was nothing any of them—Sarah, Chad, Bertold, or Sing—could do to stop the dripping. It was becoming quite serious. They were becoming quite serious too. The dripping quickened. Sarah tried to plug it with some rubber from the bottom of her shoe—it had already been dangling, so she ripped it off and stuck it.
"That isn't going to work," barked Bertold, albeit sheepishly, like a temporarily emboldened, though usually frightened, child. Chad and Sing kept back, as they often did, unsure of how to help. "That," Bertold reiterated, addressing his audience now, "is not going to work." Sing, in a jolting uncertainty, snatched the bucket beside her. This would not, she thought, become a story they would later tell, an allegory about trying to fill some hole. A vortex seemed to consume them, as though they were all suddenly young. Sarah unstuck the rubber, stood, and looked at the boys. The boys seemed small. The dripping stopped.
Ten years later, when the boys, now men, retell this story, they often get confused about what happened next. They quarrel playfully amongst each other. Bertold thinks he knows what happened next for sure. However none of them really know.
"That isn't going to work," barked Bertold, albeit sheepishly, like a temporarily emboldened, though usually frightened, child. Chad and Sing kept back, as they often did, unsure of how to help. "That," Bertold reiterated, addressing his audience now, "is not going to work." Sing, in a jolting uncertainty, snatched the bucket beside her. This would not, she thought, become a story they would later tell, an allegory about trying to fill some hole. A vortex seemed to consume them, as though they were all suddenly young. Sarah unstuck the rubber, stood, and looked at the boys. The boys seemed small. The dripping stopped.