‘I do not believe you. They did not speak until he had driven past town limits and were on the highway. Shari draped herself lazily upon her unmade bed. She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. The sing-song girl, her fiddle broken, was beating her forehead upon the floor and wailing: Ai, ai! Ai, ai! Spurlock—or Taber, as he called himself—sat slumped in a chair, staring with glazed eyes at nothing, absolutely uninterested in the confusion for which he was primarily accountable.
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