They slow danced to a Bon Jovi ballad. Rhea went down, screeching and clawing at the air for the sword, which clanked heavily on the ground. “It’s still a marvel to me that we are to be forgiven,” she said, turning. Michelle had charitably taken to sitting with Lucy during Lunch Period, where she assumed a station at the outer edges of the Cafeteria, the crowd diffusing in concentric orbits, the middle tables reserved for only the most prestigious castes. She wet some absorbent cotton with alcohol and refreshed his face and neck. I have been around them for long enough.
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