I ask you, although it is not my place to ask you, to return home. Already she knew that she was overstaying her welcome. “Do you mean to say that you have been here ever since I came?” “I am afraid that I must confess it,” he answered. It was Ramage, the occupant of the big house at the end of the Avenue. Socks and shoes were harder to find, and she ended up wearing men’s athletic tube socks and a pair of dust caked flip-flops that had sat forlornly in Locker 49 since 1978. The clouds were nearly black with rain, threatening to spill sleet in daggers and torrents. She saw her mother, her pale face, a woman in a white robe, calling to her from a sun drenched balcony. I should only disappoint you terribly some day. The dream flowers and is harvested, and we are left by the wayside, having served our singular purpose in the scheme of progress: as the orange is tossed aside when sucked of its ruddy juice. I’d rather starve!” For a moment the conversation hung upon that declaration.
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