Good Omens

and muddy dog. "Bad Dog," said Adam, scratching Dog behind the ears. Dog yapped ecstatically.
    Adam looked up. Above him hung an old apple tree, gnarled and heavy. It might have been there since the dawn of time. Its boughs were bent with the weight of apples, small and green and unripe.
    With the speed of a striking cobra the boy was up the tree. He returned to the ground seconds later with his pockets bulging, munching noisily on a tart and perfect apple.
    "Hey! You! Boy! " came a gruff voice from behind him. "You're that Adam Young! I can see you! I'll tell your father about you, you see if I don't!"
    Parental retribution was now a certainty, thought Adam, as he bolted, his dog by his side, his pockets stuffed with stolen fruit.
    It always was. But it wouldn't be till this evening.
    And this evening was a long way off.
    He threw the apple core back in the general direction of his pursuer, and he reached into a pocket for another.
    He couldn't see why people made such a fuss about people eating their silly old fruit anyway, but life would be a lot less fun if they didn't. And there never was an apple, in Adam's opinion, that wasn't worth the trouble you got into for eating it.
    * * * * *

    f you want to imagine the future, imagine a boy and his dog and his friends. And a summer that never ends.
    And if you want to imagine the future, imagine a boot ... no, imagine a sneaker, laces trailing, kicking a pebble; imagine a stick, to poke at interesting things, and throw for a dog that may or may not decide to retrieve it; imagine a tuneless whistle, pounding some luckless popular song into insensibility; imagine a figure, half angel, half devil, all human ...
    Slouching hopefully towards Tadfield ...
    ... forever.