You hide in a small crawlspace in the basement and wait, tense & contorted, until all sounds of life have left the house. You think you hear the car pulling away & are ready to unfold your throbbing limbs when you hear footsteps. You close your eyes: "If I can't see them..." but the steps approach. A wrinkled & bejeweled hand clamps on your damp & terrified wrist. Frozen with fear, you awate a tirade—and it comes, sort of. "Darling, are you trying to do it again? a warmly cosmopolitan voice inquires. "This is because you didn't play enough bridge..."
You open your eyes to see a small, smiling woman in a well-feathered hat. "Why don't you come down to the country club, dear?" she suggests, & you want to follow. Just then, a door slams, and you hear the pounding of Doc Martens on the cellar stairs.
