Father locked up all his razors and allowed Milly to use the recycled water shower in his residence — if he was away with work or sermons — for ten minutes on Sundays. Her half-brother was allowed on Saturdays. Stepsister wasn’t allowed; Sis wasn’t Father’s blood.
During one such shower, Milly spotted a peeping tom: the red-headed boy. He scampered off. She found tape on the doorjamb lock. In the breakfast hall, the red-haired boy snickered with other boys, including her half-brother.
Gripping her fork, Milly leaped over one table, then another, and pounced on the red-headed boy. His hands flailed as she knocked him over. Screaming, Milly tried to stab his eyes. It took several people to pull her off him.
Fifteen is the cutoff age for antisocial behavior diagnosis — inconclusive.
Stepmother was mortified.
Father soon returned. “He’s a hard worker in the turkey pens. Luckily, you missed his eye! But worse, you allowed one other than your husband to see the sin of your nakedness.”
“But the door had tape so it wouldn’t lock! I think my brother taped it yesterday. How else could that boy even get in?”
“Excuses!” Father swung his arm to slap her.
Milly blocked his wrist with her forearm. “Not the face.”
He growled through bared teeth. “What did you just say?”
“You said, ‘Protect my face.’”
Father stormed out of the room.
Enhanced memory is one of the few benefits of my role. When this began, Milly’s story would likely remain untold. “Just observe and remember,” the Conductor said. Now that Milly’s made it this far, my role has changed: judiciously offer relevant moments of her past, keep pace with The Now, and do so with limited resources. I don’t know you, but I hope it’s working. You are counting on me, just as I am counting on her …