Her target was a fifty-four year old man who lived with his mother, an obese neighborhood woman, a widow named Dawn Plote. The house will be well rid of him, for a more idle, good-for-nothing reprobate never crossed its threshold. There could not, he decided, possibly be two girls so much alike. “I don’t take any prisoners, John! You do not want this life!” “Yes I do! I am an adult. The sound of their strident voices floated upwards, the high nasal note of the predominant Americans, the shrill laughter of girls quick to appreciate the wit of such of their male companions as thought it worth while to be amusing. She descended down the stairs of the house, sidestepping the refuse from bingedrinking teenagers that was strewn everywhere.
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