Naomi heard another crack of thunder and watched fingers of light spread through the sky as she opened the door and tossed the leg outside. “Here, Pitickity.” Cold, thick drops of rain splashed against her skin and she slammed the door quickly. Watching from the window, she saw the cat, chicken leg in tow, bound across the yard. Her eyes scanning the dark, wet, sky, Naomi tightened the belt of her robe.
“Not a star, not a single star,” she mumbled, then took the stairs to her bedroom, veering off to the right to check the upstairs bathroom and the metal pot she kept there for nights just like this. No water had dripped from the ceiling into it, yet. She centered the pot again, best she could, beneath the discolored wooden ceiling slats and closed the door behind her.
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