"She must be over four hundred," Margy said, feeling the cold place in her stomach become even colder.
"She'll be dead in another fifty years."
Margy shuddered as the coldness exploded through her whole body and tingled down to her finger tips, making her want to cry. "I hate to think of anyone dying," she said, wishing he would talk about the weather, or about anything but dying, wishing he were less serious, more embarrassed, and more like his old self.
"I just wondered if you'd noticed Teach. I thought you would. You—you know—you ... uh ... seem to understand things, Margy."
That seemed to expose all her nerve endings, and leave them raw and tingling. Biting her lip in anger, she said, "I do not! I don't understand things at all." If he didn't quit being serious, she would get down and walk away.
"Better than most kids, I meant. Better than I do."
She wanted to laugh hysterically, and she could feel her fingers curl in toward the palms. "You just think I do," she said.
"No. I'm serious, Margy. I mean it, really. You're more grown up than we are."
Her heart raced with terror, and her face was drained. She looked away so he would not notice. "Don't say things like that, Clyde. Clyde, if you say any more about that I'll—I'll just not ever speak to you again!"