She still gets up, moves around, speaks to Gwennie, but her words are dull and mumbled. Her shoulders hunch forward. She looks like she’s trying to push herself inward—farther and farther, perhaps, until she is able to simply disappear.“Everything’s okay?” Gwennie asks. “With Scooter and Squirrel?”“They’re fine. We’re fine.” The woman fritters about the half-collapsed apartment, scooping up little piles of dust as if that’ll fix it.“Well, where are they?”“They’re out . . . playing.” The way she says this last word tells Gwennie she doesn’t really know where they are.Gwennie goes to the window—a window with the glass pane broken out of it—and looks down. The sound of the two children playing reaches her ears: it’s almost musical. Down below in a small lot lined with pulverized rubble, the two children come running. Scooter with a doll made of corn husk, Squirrel with . . . what looks to be a spear made out of a broomstick, some tape, and a shard of gleaming glass as its tip.Squirrel is not very good at playing.“Squirrel has a spear, Mom.”“Oh.
