Anne squeezes Cinnamon’s hand. She can’t believe this bullshit Dredd is stirring up again, not letting the dog lie. She can’t keep quiet any longer. “You don’t own people,” Anne says. “This is America. Everyone has choices.”

Dredd mutters, under the train’s bounce and rattle, “Contriving . . . controlling . . . cunt.” He points at Anne, then bounces his finger on an imaginary line, pointing at Cinnamon and Canary. “Pathetic. All of you.”

“What is wrong with you?” Anne asks.

“Wrong with me, you ask? Really. You come in and steal my people. Destroy everything I built.” Making a fist, he punches the air. Stomps his feet hard on the boards, as if he were marching. Dust whirls up from the floor. Dredd is becoming manic. Reminds Anne of her brother and father, getting mad when they didn’t get their way.

The twins tighten their arms around Canary. They’re scared and trembling. They’re not taking to the arguing, nor is Canary. Her eyes fill with tears.

Behind Dredd as he stomps and terrorizes everyone with his tirade, behind his craziness and his bloodshot eyes, the world isn’t serene or green. There are no soft blue skies and poofy marshmallow clouds. There is no tableau of beauty. Only narcissistic anger.

Everything in Anne’s head falls silent. Her hand reaches into her pack, and her thoughts drift. Going back to the kitchen. To her brother. His reaching for her. Her defending herself. Grabbing that skillet. Turning. Making contact with her brother’s skull. The splash of concussion. Eyes roll double-gumball whites. Anne shakes, convulsing internally. She’s lightning in a bottle. Enraged as Dredd comes forward. “I don’t gotta play these fucking games with you bitches,” he says. “I own you. Each and every one of you. Took you in. Gave you a home. Food. A fucking life.” He kneels down, pushes, and breaks the twins’ grip on Canary with his right hand, backhands Cinnamon with his left. Knocking her into Anne, who loses her balance and falls into Trot.