Miss Cloris is saying. “You take your time. Miss Helen and I aren’t going anywhere, and Harvey’s about to behave. Like a good pup, Harvey is.” “I’m sorry,” I try to say. “I’m sorry.” But the tears keep pouring out, and Minxy stays put on the windowsill, and Miss Helen reaches for my hand, smoothes my fingers down with hers, and I can’t stop crying. “I shouldn’t have busted in,” I sob, trying to press my other hand to my face to stop the tears, but the tears have a mind of their own. “You don’t be silly. our door is open.” “I just couldn’t …,” I start, and now I really can’t go on, and Miss Cloris pushes up from the front-room couch, where she’s been sitting on the other side of me, and goes halfway to the kitchen, then stops and turns back, undecided. “You bring us something to read, Sophie?” she asks at last. “Is that it?” She means the page three I yanked from the basement when I started running—up the rattle of planks, beneath the trembling web, past the Maytags, through the kitchen, out the front door, which slammed hard behind me, and kept on slamming, as I ran the slate, past the acorn splat, to the walk, and up the steps to the Rudds’.
