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Ray Plote was most certainly feeling restless, what if he had left the house for the evening? She needed to eat. Wanton!… This, then, was what her father had meant. A single false step might have precipitated him into the street; or, if he had trodden upon an unsound part of the roof, he must have fallen through it. The sun was setting when she carried the metal garbage can to the curb with their remains in it, where they sat underneath the stale chocolate cake that Sheila had thrown away and a pile of mildewy lettuce. Go to your sister, and do not quit her till all is over. It was you! It was exactly you, but it was probably the photo they thought it was your mother! I dug it up after combing the Reader’s Guide To Periodical Literature for like, six hours straight. I’ve got to have you, and by God I will. ’ ‘As a matter of fact, it isn’t,’ conceded Gerald. He was ruffled, and his ears were red, no doubt from some adjacent controversy. Easy enough.
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