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           Brightlightsstillburnedinthesmallstorewindowswherethewarmwaxdummiesliftedpinkwaxhandsfiredwithblue-whitediamondrings,orflourishedorangewaxlegstorevealhosiery.Thehotblue-glasseyesofthemannequinswatchedastheladiesdrifteddowntheemptyriverbottomstreet,theirimagesshimmeringinthewindowslikeblossomsseenunderdarklymovingwaters.

           "Doyousupposeifwescreamedthey’ddoanything?"

           "Who?"

           "Thedummies,thewindowpeople."

           "Oh,Francine."

           "Well..."

           Therewereathousandpeopleinthewindows,stiffandsilent,andthreepeopleonthestreet,theechoesfollowinglikegunshotsfromstorefrontsacrossthewaywhentheytappedtheirheelsonthebakedpavement.

           Aredneonsignflickereddimly,buzzedlikeadyinginsect,astheypassed.

           Bakedandwhite,thelongavenueslayahead.Blowingandtallinawindthattouchedonlytheirleafysummits,thetreesstoodoneithersideofthethreesmallwomen.Seenfromthecourthousepeak,theyappearedlikethreethistlesfaraway.

           "First,we’llwalkyouhome,Francine."

           "No,I’llwalkyouhome."

           "Don’tbesilly.YoulivewayoutatElectricPark.Ifyouwalkedmehomeyou’dhavetocomebackacrosstheravinealone,yourself.Andifsomuchasaleaffellonyou,you’ddropdead."

           Francinesaid,"Icanstaythenightatyourhouse.