Later, when the back door banged, followed quickly by the dull clink of one mason jar against another and the kitchen faucet squeaking on, everything in Carol’s room aside from the textbook shrine and its positive load was as disturbed as her mind. She sat on the floor and listened to Sasha through the walls, feral as a stray.
“Best girl?” Sasha called.
“Light of my loins?” She was in the living room now.
“Flash?” Right outside the door.
In the pan, Carol thought, but her lips were gummed together. She heard grumbling then the simultaneous rattle of the handle and a shoulder bang against the wood hard enough to shake loose a flurry of paint chips.
“Carol? Are you in there?”
Carol scraped together some composure before answering. “You need to go away.”
“Hey, what’s wrong? Let me in.”
