Good riddance. “John?” He turned around in the recliner. Ann Veronica was one of the few young people—and one must have young people just as one must have flowers—one could ask to a little gathering without the risk of a painful discord. What a pity! But why? There was no way over this puzzle, nor under it, nor around it: that men should drink, knowing the inevitable payment. Most of all she enjoyed the gentle gratitude of her foster family members, even the teasing 7 of Mike, her foster brother, who liked to play food critic to give her a hard time. “Silly!” he remarked after a pause. She tolerated spitballs in her curly hair and had to buy a new backpack when hers was stolen. In each corner stood a stout square post reaching to the ceiling. ‘Precisely.
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