Kids are in the small vacant lot in front of Lio's house, tossing branches, rocks, and sawn-off bits of pipe into the towering mango trees in hopes of knocking free some of the dangling fruits. I'm sitting on the terrace trying to get my words for the day, and the air is filled with the sound of tearing leaves, crashing sticks, pinging, clanging metal, crying and shouting and singing. It serves to remind me that my fictional worlds need to be filled with the noise of living, too.
99% of what the kids knock down will be unripe, but they'll gamely take a few bites before throwing the mangos on the ground where they'll shrivel and rot. There is no point in trying to reason them into waiting. They are between three and seven years old, after all, and quite probably hungry.