The last lantern string snags over the porch railing. Flour puffs off the apron. The cake leans so far that a strawberry slides off and thuds on the counter.
She catches the berry. Slaps her palm flat on the counter. "Okay. Lopsided. Okay."
Blue paper. Tucked behind the sharp-scented marigolds. But skipping feet pound the driveway, and a wave flashes from the street.
The front door whips shut. Red streamers slap her cheeks. "FIVE MORE MINUTES!" rings out while the back gate swings wide.
The lopsided cake hits the grass. Wobble. Tilt. Tip. It does not fall. Her mouth opens, closes, opens again. "It's not supposed to do that."
A slice of watermelon slams into her face. Juice drips down her chin. She howls. Sam howls back.
They chase each other through the lanterns until the sun drops. Porch lights blink on, one by one. They sing so off-key the neighbor's dog barks three times and trots away.
Three candles smoke little gray wisps. She grins wide enough to stretch her cheeks. Nobody speaks for one full second. Then everyone loses it, and the lanterns sway.
