Danny

           Downthehall,inthebedroom,WendycouldhearthetypewriterJackhadcarriedupfromdownstairsburstintolifeforthirtyseconds,fallsilentforaminuteortwo,andthenrattlebrieflyagain.Itwaslikelisteningtomachinegunfirefromanisolatedpillbox.Thesoundwasmusictoherears;Jackhadnotbeenwritingsosteadilysincethesecondyearoftheirmarriage,whenhewrotethestorythatEsquirehadpurchased.Hesaidhethoughttheplaywouldbedonebytheendoftheyear,forbetterorworse,andhewouldbemovingontosomethingnew.Hesaidhedidn’tcareifTheLittleSchoolstirredanyexcitementwhenPhyllisshoweditaround,didn’tcareifitsankwithoutatrace,andWendybelievedthat,too.Theactualactofhiswritingmadeherimmenselyhopeful,notbecausesheexpectedgreatthingsfromtheplaybutbecauseherhusbandseemedtobeslowlyclosingahugedooronaroomfulofmonsters.Hehadhadhisshouldertothatdoorforalongtimenow,butatlastitwasswingingshut.

           Everykeytypedcloseditalittlemore.

           "Look,Dick,look."

           DannywashunchedoverthefirstofthefivebatteredprimersJackhaddugupbycullingmercilesslythroughBoulder’smyriadsecondhandbookshops.TheywouldtakeDannyrightuptothesecond-gradereadinglevel,aprogramshehadtoldJackshethoughtwasmuchtooambitious.Theirsonwasintelligent,theyknewthat,butitwouldbeamistaketopushhimtoofartoofast.Jackhadagreed.Therewouldbenopushinginvolved.

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