@page { margin-bottom: 5.000000pt; margin-top: 5.000000pt; } 5 THE persistent ringing of a telephone woke me. When I forced my eyes open, I couldn't orient myself for a moment. Then the meaning of the cluttered, dirty room came flooding back. The phone kept ringing, and I stumbled to my feet from the couch. Cramped muscles protested as I went into the bedroom. Chryssie was sprawled face down on the bed. One knee was drawn up to her chest, the sheet had fallen to the floor, and she looked about twelve years old. The ringing phone was only inches from her ear, but she never moved. "Yes?" I said into the phone. I expected to hear Erikson. "I wish to speak to my daughter, Cornelia," a deep masculine voice said. "She's-ah-asleep," I said. "You're sure she's all right?" There was anxiety in the voice which featured the cultured accents of Philadelphia's Main Line. "She's all right." How could a father let a seventeen-year-old daughter live like this, I wondered?
