Meat said. He and Herculeah had left the grounds of Hunt House and were entering their own neighborhood. Now, in familiar surroundings, seeing familiar signs—BERNIE HOLDEN: ACCOUNTANT, BESSIE FLOWER: ALTERATIONS, CAKES BY CHERI, ONE-DAY DENTURES—Meat felt he was capable of holding an intelligent conversation. “I’m thinking,” she said. “About the book? Is it getting better?” “The book couldn’t get any better. It started strong and scary. That’s my kind of book.” Meat glanced at her quickly. “But why would you choose a book like that to read to someone who’s sick?” “I didn’t have any choice.” “You always have a choice.” “Not this time. The book was chosen for me. Mr. Hunt picked it out himself.” “How could he? I thought he could only blink.” “The nurse—this was the other nurse, the one I liked, not Nurse Wegman—brought in hundreds of books, and he blinked at this one.” “I wonder why.” “Who knows. I tried to figure it out. It could be that he read the book a long time ago when he was a boy.
