From next door, a relentless, chaotic thumping pulsed through the humid afternoon air. BAP-bap-CRASH-bap-BAP. It was the sound of someone beating a drum kit with the rhythmic grace of a washing machine full of bricks.

Time seemed to stretch. Rodrick pinwheeled forward with a strangled yelp. The cymbal stand flew from his grasp, clattering across the asphalt. A crash cymbal spun like a silver coin, whirring past the U-Haul and landing with a final, deafening gong in the middle of your family's lawn.

For a moment, there was only the hum of suburban silence, broken by the faint sound of Manny slurping the dregs of his juice box.