Pascal moves back and forth between the tables and the F-150, lugging foil-covered plastic bowls, plastic jugs of water. Ballard follows her on these journeys with cases of beer and soda pop; smacks her ass when the opportunity presents itself. She shrieks:

—I am too damn old for this tomfoolery!

He sidles up next to her, traps her against a table with his hip, arms full of cases of cans; whispers with his hand on her rounded belly:

—You’re 50, baby; I’d say we got us a goddamned miracle right here.