"With some people I know there."
She saw his heavy eyebrows clench, saw his eyes search her suspiciously. She heard her mother's uneasy movements. She sat tautly, her hands in her lap.
"Who," Harley said finally, "are these people?"
"Just ... some friends," Joyce said. Now it was coming, now, now.
"What friends?" Her father's voice was lower, harsher.
"Just some people I met when I was there last time."
"Just some.... Say! Is this why we've been running up these solarphone bills? What've you been doing—talking to these people every week?"
"Only a few times."
"Look here. Look at me. Joyce, answer me. Have you been talking to that fellow you told us about—the one you met on your other trip?"
She let it out, a tiny, miserable, "Yes."