Looking out the window at the dripping trees and stagnant mud puddles, I pulled the afghan around my shoulders. Riff was in the back room, reading-or sulking, or both. Though it was chilly, the thought of Riff warmed me. Silly though he could sometimes be, he was really my only hold on life-on anything, really. I knew he was possessive, I knew he was dangerous, who hadn't warned me against him? And yes, I knew he was my brother, they'd told me how disgusting it was, when we were caught. If you repeat a word too many times, it loses all meaning. Incest.incest.incest.incest. Incest. I didn't care anymore -in fact- I never cared.

The tips of my fingers were blistered and sore from the matches, the flames I put to them. My feet were cold and my head ached from alcohol. Still, it was lovely to be sitting here, doing nothing. I thought of reading, but books never held my interest as they did for Riff, I hadn't been raised to be literate, I had no need for book-knowledge. I rested my head against my knees, and listened to the plop-plop-plop of the cold water hitting the dirt.

Soon I'd go back to the kitchen, back to the dust on the tables, the grime on the steps. Frank would need me, Columbia would need me, Riff always needed me. There'd be food to prepare, floors to mop, and walls to scrub. For now though, nothing would move me. Not a boulder, nor a spaceship. This was my time.