Harpo woke, and then he saw he was in a chair, and then remembered where he was. Lodgehouse. Treasure Island. Canada. He looked up to the window and saw the back of someone in reflection, so he quietly lifted the blanket over his head and made himself look like a cushion. From now on, he wouldn’t be heard or seen any more either, and he’d go through life this way, watching it in the reflection of dirty windows.
But then, “Blima,” said that familiar female voice.
Harpo peeked out through a corner of the blanket. It was Ayala in the entrance of the room, her pretty reflection in the glass just like he’d hoped for, but something about her voice made him huddle deeper into the chair.
“Yes, I said,” came the chirpy reply.
“Blima, you look at me when I’m talking to you.”
Harpo lowered the b
