Cordelia had decreed that I needed something sweet so she’d instructed Rachel to take the exit for the next service station. In terms of quenching impulse buys, this place had it all—from sunglasses to diesel fuel, from chocolate bars to celebrity magazines, from rolls of chalky Tums to tacky T-shirts. As Rachel was the only one who’d thought to bring her credit card, she was elected to gather supplies while Cordelia pumped our gas. I’d swum back to consciousness on the 400 Highway, somewhere after exit 85. The first thing I’d done was to cry out Trowbridge’s name; the second to ask for Merry. Once she’d been placed in my puffy hands I’d quieted. Cordelia told me they’d fed her until she’d indicated she was full. Merry had been foolishly hasty on that one. Even after her feeding, her color was one shade off burned butter. I’d slid her clumsily into the confines of my left bra cup. Nuzzled against my warm boob, she had fallen into an immediate dreamless sleep. (Okay, I don’t know if my amulet pal dreams or not, but she didn’t move.
What do You think about The Problem With Promises?
