It was summer.

This, Mike reflected, meant a number of things. It would be hot. There would be hordes of people all over the beach out back. The ice cream man and his eternal recording of Beethoven's Fifth--as if he was trying to culturally educate the hordes of children as well as exchange their quarters and grubby dollar bills for Fudgesickles. It also meant his latent allergies would flare up, and with no spare money for medicine, he'd be spending a lot of time indoors, lest he start singing more like Bob Dylan than he really cared to.

He tried to imagine how he'd manage with a plugged up nose, and couldn't. Better just to stay in, he thought with a resigned sigh. Peter and Micky were out on the beach flinging water at each other, and Davy was out there hitting on yet another girl. And here he was, trapped inside with nothing whatsoever to do except feel miserable about being trapped inside with nothing to do whatsoever.

He sat there (with exceptions for eating and sleeping and practicing, of course) for two whole months, until the end of the season of heat and horrible pollen. Then he ventured outside.

But poor Mike had misjudged how long the pollen would stay. He was outside, walking happily along the beach, when suddenly a whole gob of microscopic, malignant plant dust crept up his nose.

He sneezed so hard his head fell off.