Yes, but I'll miss our times together. I'll hurry back as quickly as I can."
When she finally left the coffee shop she headed toward the nearest Wal-Mart, the shopping oasis for the underdeveloped bourgeois. Within this desert oasis she bought some sheets and, in an aisle for Halloween products, a witch's hat and some green gunk from which to soil her face. In the car she applied the paint and cut holes in one of the sheets. When she drove up to the house, she honked on the horn repeatedly until the boy finally came out of the house begrudgingly.
She rolled down the window. "Did you lock the door?" she asked.
"Yeah," he said, and got in the car lethargically.
"All of them?"
"All of them. They're locked," he said petulantly.
"Do I need to check?"
"No, quit bothering me!" he said insolently.
"Poor Mr. Petulant—always doubted and examined in these unjust inquisitions. Okay, I won't doubt you this time; but I must tell you this: in the event that we are robbed I will hand you over to the man with the unmemorable name with an unburdened conscience. He has connections with slave labor camps in Siberia from the way I understand things."
"I know that you don't understand anything. You are lying. There aren't any of these connections."