Daryl's neighbor was named Cal. Cal worked at the gas station two blocks away. He was plump and he constantly rubbed lotion into his tender skin. He giggled at everything. The sound of his giggling was not inappropriate. It was not the scary squealing laugh of a pervert. It was a gentle soft laugh. But it burbled in his chest constantly and, because it was so continuous, was a little hard to take. He said everything was little. Almost every noun that came out of his mouth had been tagged with a preceding "little." He talked about his little car, his little home, his little niece. His little dog Pedro. His conversations cycled around him like dainty horses. He became the amiable ringmaster of his diminutive circus. He tended to repeat himself with the unthinking ease of someone who is not used to being listened to.