She looked around the room; and a corner, she thought, would be nice to hide in, if it was dark, and whoever was looking for her didn't have a light. But it was all over, and she was sick, and it was too much trouble to try to hide again.
Without raising his voice, the other man said, not unkindly, "Where's your adult band, Margy?"
Her eyes were listless and defeated. They did not glance toward her left upper arm. Automatically she said, "I can't wear one, yet."
"How old are you, Margy?" the woman said.
"I'm—I'm sixteen. Almost seventeen. Yes, I'm almost seventeen."
Mr. Hershey said softly, "I'm sorry, Margy. There will have to be tests."
She stiffened almost imperceptibly.
Clyde's mother bent forward. "Why don't you admit you're as old as I am?" she said.
"No, no, no," Margy moaned. "I'm not! I'm not! I'm not!"
"Now, now...."