A family of quail scurry out from stage left and stage right and plow into each other. All of them look like drama queens. I tell her, “Watch out. You don’t want to be downwind from a port-a-potty.” She waves me off the set. Turns toward the quail that are looking like Isadora Duncan on a bad day. Murderous. (Whose idea were those freaking purple feathers stuck in their hats?). “You stink,” she says, “All of you freaking stink.” They run outside to check a smoke, mumbling curse words. “Good riddance,” she says. “And don’t come back no more.”