Lizzie never found it, the fork he hurled into the yard in pie-sick fury, until her next boyfriend’s riding mower spat it quivering an inch deep into the outside doorframe. If she’d been bringing him lemonade like a dutiful whatever it could have killed her, but she was cool in the basement, smoking the cloves she’d told him she quit. Someone once told her that cloves are to your lungs like ground glass to your stomach. She sucked hard, needing the smell, needing the scent memory to summon his exquisite face when she told him she’d pissed in the pie.