She leaped to a world of shabby knowledge, of furtive base realizations. She found her foster father and Mike still awake, playing high stakes UNO at the dimly lit kitchen table. Moving back to the corner again, she ran a hand back over the leather-bound books—which, she realised, were not books at all. ‘That is what she wants, is it?’ ‘Do you blame her?’ he said stiffly. “You seem to have cultivated quite a jaunty appearance, and you certainly look years younger. " "I can't exactly say, Sir Rowland. The fragrance of dryer sheets lay upon her like the snow that now drifted peacefully outside.
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