His absence was thought by the charitable to be from grief. At times I swear I’ve never met a more jaded fifteen-year-old, and your lie about being sixteen didn’t get by me for one second, believe it. “Useless—worse than useless. I sha'n't cry any more. And what did she do? Not only did she cut his hand in her rage, but she refused to let him help her, and then she ran away from him. They have no ideas what to do with us. Lucy had passed the house once on the sidewalk, on a rare day when he was shoveling snow. Too much, perhaps. Raymond Plote would only be missed by his mother.
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