“I’ll fix him!” said Wing. Wing was panting. Oxygen leaped into the lungs and coursed through the body, like a bright angry wind blowing Dove backward. The condominiums stood still and watched, their miniblinds like a million flat eyes. No human eyes looked out; all human eyes were at work. Whatever else people did in this complex to entertain themselves, looking out the windows was not one of their pastimes. They did not know their neighbors, they did not wish to know their neighbors, they hardly even qualified to be neighbors. One look at Wing, face contorted, rage exploding, fingernails raking, would convince accidental watchers to return to not watching. Dove tried to use the mouth, to speak to Wing, tell her to calm down. But Wing was in there, jabbering, saying what she was going to do to Mr. Phinney. Finally they were back inside their own unit, and finally Wing had something to drink—a cherry Coke—which seemed to calm her down a little. “Wing,” said Dove, “It’s just a history project.
