The end table in the small room beside the steps is green. It’s single drawer is drawn. The contents of it are strewn on the floor. There's a twisty paper clip, a dirty nickel, and a greasy pen. Amalia looks at these things. Her eyes pass over them. She reads what they are but their substance is lost to her. She tries to give them value or measure their profundity. But she fails and cries. Hitching up her lip she releases a series of wrenching spasms. Tears pour down her face. They gather on her balled up chin grower larger and larger. Dripping onto her already salty blouse. The kitchen is coming. The kitchen is coming, Matt marched around the bed thrusting a bulbous plunger into the air as he went. The red text blinking in the lower corner insists that a SGTMKR's has been activated a lot in the last seventy two hours. Click, press Shift and Seven. Then the image rolls forward like a cart wheel. The left girl made up with a long braid tells the one on the right, So ...