THE WOMAN: “What makes you want to hurt Mamma? Please, sweetheart. You want to put your hand there? All right, baby, put your hand there.”

A long silence.

BERRY-BERRY: “Are you Annabel?”

THE WOMAN: “That’s right, baby; I’m Annabel.”

Annabel? Does he think she’s Annabel?

Don’t think. Don’t think.

But he thinks she’s Anna . . .

Don’t think! Thoughts make fear, fear makes noise, noise makes trouble. Ss-shh. Listen. Wait.

BERRY-BERRY: “We shouldn’t do this. You shouldn’t be here.”

THE WOMAN: “You want me to go?”

BERRY-BERRY: “No! Stay!”

THE WOMAN: “Let go, baby. I mean it. You’re hurtin’ me.

Movements on the bed. Violent motion. Heavy breathing. A sudden hard slap. The woman’s voice, loud, heavy with anger: “I’ll kill—you sonofabitch! I swear, I’ll kill!” Another impact of fist against flesh, this time harder. Berry-berry groaning with pain.

THE WOMAN: “You sorry sonofabitch. Now lay there and die, will you do that for me? You sorry, sorry bastard?”

The woman stands for a moment at the bedside, breathing heavily, then turns quickly to the door, and goes out, slamming it behind her. Footsteps on the stairs, and on the first floor. The front door opening, closing. Silence. The motor starting, the truck backing up the driveway.

What’s wrong with Berry-berry? What did she do to him?

Keep your seat. Listen. Hear him breathing? Quick, hysterical breaths. Now he’s sobbing.

And now he’s crying.

She made him cry.

Berry-berry?

Crying?

Crying, yes.

Clinton shuddered from head to foot, every inch of him, inside and out. And this sudden violent activity of his body was like a death rattle.

In this instant, with no motion other than this profound spasm, he felt himself transported to some high place, far above the house. This high place was not even a cloud, as one might travel to in imagination or in a dream. Nor was it any place at all: it was simply distance, suspension, a view: and it was terrifying to be there.