She ran through the backyards of Pinecrest subdivision, piano wire and a slim jim tucked into her pantyhose. I told them lies. God, we suck. Then blackness. Wood. It’s all right. Spurling, drily. A handy knife, and a good tot of something sharp to clean out the wound. He grabbed her wrist and prised the weapon from her fingers, ignoring her other hand that clawed at his to try to retain the trophy. She dropped beside the chair, sat cross-legged, and laughed at the futile jade-coloured wall. Our quarrel's quite over. 8.
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