Mother Blessing’s door slammed again.
She’d been doing this for an hour—coming out of her room, rolling around the halls, the rubber wheels of her scooter squeaking on hardwood floors, then going back in. Slamming doors like an eight-year-old throwing a tantrum.
Except most eight-year-olds weren’t potentially lethal. Is she in for the night this time?
Kerry wondered. Or just for a couple of minutes?
The answer could, literally, be that proverbial matter of life and death. Gotta get out of here gotta get out of here gotta get out
. . .