The emerald wings, slashed with scarlet and yellow, wheeling and swooping about her head, there among the wild plantain. She kept him talking all the way to the doorstep of the Beck's home, a small 1970s brown split-level in the old part of town. Her eardrums were burning with the echoes of those hideous shouts. Profoundly. "Hear me, Jack!" shrieked his mother. A corner could hold the promise of a shelf of dainty crystals, volcanic ices of rainbow colors, or figurines of saints sculpted from horn and bone reenacting their martyrdoms on delicate miniature wooden stages.
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