What she was staring at was Honey-Pie, who stood in the cabin doorway, one hand high on the door frame, the other on the doorknob, one foot inside the sill, one foot out. Her dress was all torn. Her head was all low between her shoulders, her mouth was sort of loose, and her eyes were wide. She was watching, not intense enough to call it a stare, back. She didn’t look all that much like she was hurt or anything—maybe she looked like she was sick. Or maybe just funny.

I looked back at the director. I could tell, her eyes were flicking back and forth between me and Hogg; and back to Honey-Pie.

I looked at Hogg. He’d just glanced at Honey-Pie too; now his eyes went to fix on nothing in particular in the general direction of the director. He wasn’t looking at her, I could tell. But his jaw was clamped so hard it almost looked like the muscle was about to shake.

The director lowered the still flaming match. Her frown got deeper. Sawyers was walking on. Again she looked at me, at Hogg, at Honey-Pie. I could see her start to turn away; then I could see her not do it. Her own jaw clamped, loosened. She shook the match suddenly, tossed it away. “Hey,” she said. “Little girl? Are you okay …?” Hogg still wasn’t looking at her. “Is everything all right?” (There were police all over the place, so I guess there wasn’t too much Hogg could do.) “What’s the matter?”

Honey-Pie blinked a couple of times at the director. I don’t even think she was thinking particularly about me or Hogg. She moved her head a little, blinked again, and in a low voice answered: “Nothin’.”

The director, her frown become all questioning disbelief, raised her cigarette slowly. At this point, I don’t think she was thinking about Hogg or me either. I thought she was going to march up across the plank.

She didn’t.

She turned away, took a couple of steps, looked back, frowned again—even then I thought she might come back—went off half a dozen steps more, glanced back at us again, then turned away.

Hogg let out his breath.

She glanced back a couple times more.

Hogg looked at Honey-Pie. She still stood in the doorway, looking down at the deck now. Once she looked up at us both, then let her eyes drop again.

The director had caught up with the van. She grabbed the side of the door, vaulted up—brushed away one guy who tried to give her a hand—and turned, holding onto the side, and looked back again, her cigarette a red pinprick in the gauze of shadows that pulled across them, van and all.

“Come on, cocksucker,” Hogg whispered, “let’s get going!”

He glanced at Honey-Pie once more, then lumbered over the sagging plank. I hurried after him.