His
ce
ll
phone
ra
ng
a
nd
b
y the
sound
of
the
tone
he
kn
e
w
who
it w
a
s.
S
h
ar
on.
W
h
y
c
oul
d
n
’
t
she
g
e
t
it
th
r
ou
g
h
h
e
r
thi
c
k
skull
th
a
t
he w
a
nt
e
d
no
p
ar
t
of
h
er
?
H
e’
d
b
ee
n
a
s
blunt
a
s
h
e
kn
e
w
how
a
nd
t
h
a
t w
a
s
s
a
y
i
n
g
som
e
thin
g
.
He
d
e
b
a
t
e
d
a
nsw
e
r
i
n
g
it,
but
d
ec
id
e
d
a
g
ood
f
i
g
ht
would
c
l
e
a
r
his
h
e
a
d
of
thou
g
hts
of
P
e
y
ton
a
nd
wh
a
t
he
w
a
n
t
e
d to do with h
e
r
on
c
e
he
h
a
d h
e
r
th
e
r
e
in his hom
e
.
“
W
h
a
t p
ar
t of
no don
’
t
y
ou und
er
st
a
nd,
S
h
ar
on
?”
“
You
’
r
e
just
m
a
d
a
t
me
is
a
ll,
R
y
k
er
.
You
’
ll
g
e
t
ov
e
r
it,
a
nd
I
’
ll still be
h
er
e
w
a
iti
n
g
on
y
ou.”
“
No,
y
ou
’
r
e
w
r
o
n
g
.
I
’
m
not
moving
b
ac
k
to
D
a
ll
a
s,
a
nd
I
’
m d
ef
init
e
l
y
not
h
a
vi
n
g
a
r
e
l
a
tionship
of
a
n
y
kind
w
i
th
y
ou.
Do
y
ou
r
s
e
lf a
fa
v
o
r
a
nd
f
ind
some
oth
e
r
bottoml
e
ss
po
c
k
e
t
to
poke in.
I
’
m
not int
ere
st
e
d.”
“
B
ut
I love
y
ou.
I
t
’
s
n
ot
a
bout
the
mon
e
y
,
R
y
k
er
.
I
c
a
n
’
t
live without
y
ou,”
she
insist
e
d.
H
e
r
whin
e
y
voi
c
e
g
ra
t
e
d
on
his
n
er
v
e
s.
He
bit
b
ac
k
a
c
u
r
se
a
nd
c
ut
h
e
r o
f
f in
mid
-
whin
e
.
Th
e
n
he shov
e
d
the
phone b
ac
k
into
the hold
e
r
on
his
b
e
lt
a
nd
s
t
ood
up.
Th
er
e
w
a
s
no
rea
son
to
c
ontinue
to st
ar
e
a
t
the
busi
n
e
ss
p
r
o
pos
a
l
put
t
o
g
e
th
e
r
b
y h
i
s
b
e
st
m
e
n
wh
e
n
he
c
ouldn
’
t
think
of
a
n
y
thi
n
g oth
e
r
th
a
n
P
e
y
ton.
W
ith
a
si
g
h,
he
g
a
v
e
in
a
nd
pull
e
d
out
his
pho
n
e
on
c
e
a
g
a
in.
On
l
y
this
tim
e
,
he
pun
c
h
e
d
in h
e
r
numb
er
.
He
g
l
a
n
c
e
d
a
t
his
w
a
t
c
h.
S
he
should
be
o
f
f
w
o
r
k
b
y
n
ow,
he thou
g
ht.
I
t
w
a
s
n
e
ar
l
y s
e
v
e
n,
a
nd
she
usu
a
l
l
y
g
ot
o
f
f
a
t
six
fr
om
the din
er
.
“
H
e
llo
?
”
“
W
h
a
t
ar
e
y
ou
w
ear
i
n
g
?
”
S
he
l
a
u
g
h
e
d
a
nd
h
e
a
r
d
the
r
ustling sound
of
m
a
t
er
i
a
l
g
liding
a
g
a
inst som
e
thin
g
.
“
I
t
’
s mo
r
e
like
w
h
a
t
I
’
m
not w
ear
i
n
g
,”
s
h
e
suppli
e
d.
“
W
hi
c
h i
s
?
”
he
a
sk
e
d, his h
a
nd
a
djusting
his sti
ff
e
ning
c
o
c
k.
“
I
’
m not w
e
ar
i
n
g
p
a
nts
o
r
a
blouse
or
a
d
re
ss or
s
h
o
e
s or
so
c
ks.”
“
Hmmm,
wh
a
t
do
e
s
th
a
t
l
ea
v
e
?
A
b
r
a
a
nd
a
p
a
ir
of
p
a
nti
e
s.”
His
c
o
c
k
g
r
e
w h
ar
d
er
.
“
M
a
y
b
e
.”