When the word “FREAK” appeared scratched in the persimmon colored paint on her locker, she knew that in some fragile young woman’s mind a war had escalated from imaginary to physical. She crawled underneath the soft white sheets, reclining and pulling the blankets up to her chin. In mid-bite, she heard a car door slam that was recognizable. ’ ‘That’s right,’ agreed the militiaman, coming forward to stand before her. The former was shot by Blueskin through the head, and his body fell over the bannisters. "You mean, it doesn't matter?" "Poor Hoddy! When you were ill in Canton, out of your head, you babbled words.
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