Everyone went outside to admire the blue moon. We lit a fire. Talking, drinking, smoking, a little music-making, very mellow. You could have easily fallen into a snooze on one of the patio chairs.
I got up to refill my cup and an explosion, like a grenade, rings out into the night as a flaming piece—what?— shrapnel?— comes sailing over the next door neighbor's fence and lands just a couple yards away from us.
My ears were ringing!
Smoke hung in the air. M. goes running over to see whatever's left of the "molotov cocktail."
"It's... it's... BARBIE!" she calls out.
She holds up one leg of a Barbie Doll, singed by fire at the thigh, but still as recognizable as ever.