“Wick heard the chuckling of the door handle somewhere below. From his bedroom loft, he could see that Saint Daddy's hollering had already drawn a crowd like a tankard of blond beer: the whole community pouring into the clearing and staring skyward, their golden sun-stained faces wrinkled against the bright of the summer sky. Saint Daddy would wake every boy, man, and beast in the Blooming, but he would never come inside without Wick's permission. Even Saint Daddy had manners.”