"Your eyes follow her," Tiny observed shrewdly.
"They do," Wilding admitted. "I'm curious about her. What could she have done to be sent here?"
"Amyth was born here. She's never had a chance to do anything. Can you imagine what such a life means to a girl like that?"
Wilding shuddered. "I don't have to imagine."
"She's tough," went on Tiny. "Only the tough ones survive. The authorities don't recognize their existence. They send men and women here, with all the fences down, then close their eyes. Maybe nobody told them about the birds and bees. Amyth is my sister's child. She grew up here, knows nothing but this prison life."
"She grew up all over," commented Wilding.
Tiny's eyes bubbled, like sunlight dancing in a glass of beer. "She's vicious as a blaster discharge, but as clean. Don't get any wrong ideas. I taught her to take care of herself. But she's still woman enough to think and feel. She likes you, made that dress specially for you to see her in it."
Wilding grunted unhappily. Even in Hell—complications.
"I can still see most of her in it. What's she trying to sell? I don't need a seamstress or dress designer, or a wife."
"You need something," rumbled Tiny. "Give her a break, man. Amyth's a flower growing in a trash heap. She deserves something better than this. Maybe you don't want her, and maybe you never will. But if you break out of here, take her along."