Susan was drinking a cup of coffee. Sharon was trying to finish a hamburger that just wouldn’t go down. The shouting was far enough away so that the words were indecipherable, but clear enough in intent, to make Sharon think of blood. After a while, everything began to make her think of blood, even the bright plastic poinsettias on the middle of the table and the fuzzy red suit of the Santa Claus doll that had been placed in the window so that it faced the street. It shocked her a little, to think that Susan could sit there so calmly, drinking her coffee, watching the progress of the riot, watching the death of it—and not twitch at all. Sharon Morrissey definitely felt like twitching. She even felt like screaming. Ever since the circle had formed and it had become obvious what was going on, she had wanted to jump in her car and head for Boston. “What are we going to do?” she asked, when the crowd started to disperse and the thick film of tension in the air began to disperse with it.
