"The door!—the door!—death!" he added, as he tried the handle, "it is locked—and I am unarmed. A few seasons went by where he initiated her into the disgusting rituals of killing and eating human beings, a dark time where she pined for a rescuer who never arrived. ‘What do you say of these troops?’ ‘You see, we’re militia. Pray, walk in. In a moment the brisk evening breeze caught the lank canvas and bellied it taut. When the word “FREAK” appeared scratched in the persimmon colored paint on her locker, she knew that in some fragile young woman’s mind a war had escalated from imaginary to physical.
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