“Oh, shut up!” Lydia said in disgust. For once the words came out clearly. Anna recoiled.

Someone next to Lydia chuckled. Lydia’s normal vision returned. She swung around. An old man with half of his teeth gone was strapped in his own wheelchair a few feet away. He caught her eye.

“That’s Mr. Cromwell,” Mrs. Only whispered to Anna and Roger. “Don’t be frightened. He can’t help slobbering like that. He’s all right; just, well, you know—”

“Afternoon,” Cromwell said brightly. He spat through his teeth, just missing the toe of his right foot. Anna blanched. Lydia tried to say, “What manners!” But this time she couldn’t get her tongue to move right at all.

“Nice day,” Cromwell said, leering at Roger.

“Why, he knows what’s going on,” Anna said, horrified, to Mrs. Only.

“Be quiet. He can hear you,” Roger whispered back.

“I think it’s time for us to go, Mama. We don’t want to tire you out,” Anna said nervously. “We’ll come back next Sunday.”

“Don’t rush,” Cromwell said, to no one in particular.

“He’s … malicious,” Anna whispered.

“Oh, no. He doesn’t really know what he’s saying,” Mrs. Only said.

“Bye, Ma,” Roger said.

Quite suddenly and simply Lydia put out her hand, almost formally; and Roger took it, feeling foolish. He wouldn’t be coming back—Lydia knew this in a rush, without knowing how she knew. He was scared of becoming what she was, or what she seemed to be. But she didn’t really understand him too well, even if he was her favorite, and she could get Roger Young back if she tried to. He had all kinds of great things going for him. Had Roger Older gone? And Anna? Lydia supposed they had.

“Your kids, huh?” old man Cromwell said.

His raspy voice was so intrusive that she jumped.

“Gotcha all doped up, huh?” he said sympathetically.

Lydia ignored him. For one thing, she wouldn’t associate with old men who spat through their teeth; what a nasty habit. For another, she kept seeing Roger and Anna as they used to be, and somewhere in the back of her mind a birthday cake glittered with candles.

“Blow them out. Make a wish,” she said gaily. In the dining room, her voice was lovely and clear as a bell. How odd!

“I want to be a doctor or an artist when I grow up,” Roger said.

“You can’t wish. It’s my birthday,” Anna said. “You shouldn’t even be here, anyhow. You’re a boy, and it’s a girl’s party—”