’ ‘Gad, there is someone there,’ exclaimed Hilary beside him, shading his eyes with one hand. She found her foster father and Mike still awake, playing high stakes UNO at the dimly lit kitchen table. The bleach had ruined it, with yellow-orange streaks invading the frizzy white that cascaded in wavy tendrils coated with greasy hairspray. The wounded man had descended the bridge, and dashed himself against the door beyond it; but, finding it impossible to force his way further, he turned to confront his assailants. Nothing anyone could say or do would change him. “What do you think you are doing?” He asked. The Semitic looking young man opposite, who seems to have been committing you to memory piecemeal, will tell you that he was never so bored in all his life as he has been here. She had other boyfriends and hung out at Foster’s only bar most of the time.
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