The Last Paragraph in Pinky's Latest Short Story

Suddenly the rain and thunder stopped. Dora tiptoed to the stove, which was now covered in grease and filth and stench, and looked into the pot. The grease was gone. Most of the okra was gone. But at the very bottom, against the side, was one perfectly fried piece of okra—delicately browned, crisp, but with a jeweled green shining through the cornmeal. Dora knew that soon her husband would return, followed by the Sumners with the citizens of the county in tow. Angry.Pock-marked. Maimed. Destroyed. In that one final moment of private regret, she popped into her mouth the most delicious fried morsel of okra she had ever tasted or tasted since.