She looked blearily at the clock and uttered a small shriek of alarm. Fifteen minutes to get ready and off to school. She sat up quickly and let out another shriek, of pain this time. It felt as though the flesh were being wrenched from her face with a dull spatula. In the bathroom she took one look at the Technicolor glory of her face and completed the rest of her toilette with her eye averted. Lucy gave no trouble about being jammed by brute force into her clothes and eating her breakfast (banana and bran muffin to go) as she did not want to rile the angry and hideous stranger who had mysteriously replaced her mom during the night. “Aren’t we picking up Miranda?” the child asked meekly, when it had become clear that they were heading directly for P.S. 1. “No, we’re not. Miranda can get to school by herself.” “What about the bad man?” “The bad man is in jail,”
