Dawn had always been fascinated by bees. Smothered in the cotton taffeta of her dress, she often watched from the silence of the living room window as they swarmed in clusters around her mother's daisies, the glow of the southern sun illuminating the paleness of her skin to a shade of red angry. He stood there, watching, for much of the first day, as his family went about their basic daily activities, his little diamond eyes wide and receptive to the world moving outside the glass. It was a Thursday, his grandmother stopped the Torino GT in the driveway, her hand hanging lazily out the window, clinking pastel nails against the steel. Despite the age difference, her grandmother always seemed to mirror a near-perfect representation of Dawn's mother, dressed in clothes seemingly plucked straight from the contents of her daughter's closet. Dawn's grandfather lay buried deep in the ground, and had been there for two years before her birth. Dawn turned away from the window, a bewildered sense of excitement washing over her as she stared at the car hurtling down their gravel driveway. She loved her grandmother, her grandmother brought her gifts and sweets, and occasionally her little dog, an enthusiastic rat terrier whose main purpose in life was to shower every human being with little licks of affection. She rushed eagerly towards the door and began stomping her feet upon arrival, causing her little shoes to clatter against the wood. It was his favorite way to get his mother's attention, stomping. "Yes, Dawn," Her mother emerged from the dining room, a short, stooped woman with thick glasses, and ran a hand through Dawn's blonde curls, pausing to place a lace bow that sat perfectly in the center of her.. . in the center of the card... now dear, I passed your grandfather's off for a heart attack. You've gotten too messy," his grandmother lights her cigarette. “Shove him back under, we'll find a solution inside. It's hot as hell out here, and my damn makeup is melting. And stop crying." The two reach down, finalizing the task with one last jam on the porch, sliding him inside. “Oh,” her grandmother sighs as they stand. “Don't be so disappointed, my little black widow. At best he was a miserable drunk. He patted his daughter on the shoulder. His mother wiped her eyes, smearing more makeup on her cheek, looking frail, her brown eyes defeated as she took in the dejected state of her late husband. "Let's go play with Dawn." Her grandmother nudged her in the side with a sharp, skinny elbow. “I bought her some clothes. A nice little yellow, with white trim. Maybe I'll do their makeup myself.”