He put down his brush. “Primrose, are you sure?”She looked down from the roof. “If you ask me that one more time.”“But it feels so weird.”“You’re going to look weird with a white face in about two seconds.”“But who ever heard of a bedroom without windows? You have to have at least one.”“Why? So the egg throwers can look in at me?”“So you can look out.”“There’s nothing to look out at. Paint.”It had been hard enough to paint the side windows. But the last remaining window? The most important window of all?Primrose thumped across the roof on her knees and with an angry swat left a three-foot track of Buten’s white primer across the front windshield. “There go your excuses,” she growled. “Now finish it.”Reluctantly, David took up his brush and, standing on a chair, began painting the windshield. The last thing he saw inside before the last brushstroke was the propped-up picture on Primrose’s dresser. He had wanted to ask his father about it, but he would not be home for days, and David did not have the patience to wait.
