Umbrella shuffle

I'm walking Lisa home from school.  There is a dusting of rain.  I have an umbrella, Lisa doesn't; but I don't have it up. Lisa has not called 'Brellas up!' yet, the dusting of rain does not warrant it.  Or perhaps she feels funny about calling 'Brellas up' when we only have one umbrella.

"I don't know," she says.  "Can rain really 'dust'?"

"Anything can dust, Lisa. It's a basic right."

We walk past the fish pond where the old people monopolise the benches.   I don't know if they would attack if someone else tried to sit down, but they don't look welcoming either. We avert our eyes as we walk by, we lower our voices nervously.  

There is a shuffling in the bushes and we side-eye it.  There is an old man rummaging in the bushes.  My teeth clench, readying for violence.  I see that Lisa's hands have fisted up-- thumb wrapped around the fingers, like I taught her, not tucked inside them.

The old man pulls an umbrella out of the bushes– unabashedly, like we are not even there– and walks back around the bushes.  

"Hmm." I think.

"Well..." Lisa voices softly.

The man shoves the umbrella back into the bushes, at the other end of the pond.  

"Well..." I say.

"Maybe, if we looked, we could get an umbrella for me, too."