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. Of what was she thinking? She must rescue herself. ‘Have you any more pretty toys like that knife about you?’ ‘The girl’s a regular arsenal,’ Hilary snapped, giving up into his senior’s hand the nasty little weapon he had snatched. His shouts for help were answered by roars of mockery and laughter. “And now,” she said, splintering the surviving piece of coal into indignant flame-spurting fragments with one dexterous blow, “what am I to do? “I’m in a hole!—mess is a better word, expresses it better. A vague desire to justify himself ruffled her father. “And so you have been thinking?” her father began, quoting her letter and looking over his slanting glasses at her. But he had shown no desire for information, no curiosity. I—I don’t understand,” the man faltered wearily. Your mind is still subtly sick. He liked to draw her in, and she did her best to talk. The horror of those few minutes was still with her.
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