One Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest Essay -- essays research papers

One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest   Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  This film unlike most others on the same topic had no real event to focus on. There was not just one climax or specific scene that the others built up to or supported. I cannot say that I enjoyed it but I do feel it has to a great extent affected me. The only reason I feel that this film is one worth watching is because of the latent message it holds. It very successfully exposes authority and bureaucracy in society. The characters in this film portray people that are either convinced or have been convinced that are crazy.   Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Ã‚  Mac, a man with no real purpose in life but to sail through it somehow, is sent to a mental institution for doctors to determine whether he is crazy. There he makes an enemy of the head nurse in the ward, whose methods of taking care of the patients are harsh and rigid. What intrigues me most about the Ms.Ratched’s (the nurse), character in this film is the fact that even though so much out of the ordinary happens, she returns to her normal self in a matter of seconds. It seems that years of routine and monotony have taken over her and she simply cannot have things any other way. Anything out of the ordinary is repugnant to her, thus her firm resolve to not allow the patient’s to view a ball game during the World Series. Which is why when she encounters Mac, she feels she needs to suppress his â€Å"outrageous† acts in any way possible. She goes to the extent of sendin...

An Ironic Night :: essays research papers

It was Friday night January 12 and Tanya, Heidi, and I were on our way to the movies. We drove in Heidi’s brand new 2000 silver Mustang. We were in the car listening to music and happy to get to see the movie that we have been waiting to see. We were going to see Save the Last Dance at 7:25 at Creve Coeur AMC Theater. Heidi took Lindbergh south to Old Olive until we reached the movie theater. The next exit was Old Olive and we got off at it. At that time it was about 7:10. The movie was going to start in 15 minutes. We didn’t want to rush because we knew that we had to find a parking spot and then get seats as well. As we were driving towards the movie theater we noticed a lot of cars coming out. That meant the theater was probably crowded. We started to slow down and make a left turn into Creve Coeur Cinema. Heidi was at a dead stop in the left lane with her blinker on to turn left. Many cars were coming out of the theater and not letting her enter the parking lot. I turned to Heidi and told her, "Heidi scoot up a lil’ bit so you have a chance to get in." "Ok," replied Heidi. Just then I turned to the right and looked at the people doing clean-ups at Creve Coeur Waterway. Heidi was still waiting for her turn. All of a sudden we hear and feel a huge thud. All at once the air bags flew out and the car jumped into the other lane. As soon as we realized what happened we jumped out of the car. Being that I was so shocked and freaked out I forgot that Tanya was in the back seat. I let her out quickly and then all I could hear after that was Heidi screaming. "OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD!" "What the heck happened," I said. "Look at my car! Look at what they did to my car! You are going to pay for this" Heidi shouted. I turned to look at Tanya and she had just dialed the police with her cell phone. Everything had happened so fast. Within a few minutes the cop showed up. Heidi was still screaming and then she called her mom. Just then Tanya and I called our parents to let them know what happened and that we were ok.

Development Of The Human Zygote Essay -- essays research papers fc

Development of the Human Zygote Hundreds of thousands of times a year a single-celled zygote, smaller than a grain of sand, transforms into an amazingly complex network of cells, a newborn infant. Through cellular differentiation and growth, this process is completed with precision time and time again, but very rarely a mistake in the "blueprint" of growth and development does occur. Following is a description of how the pathways of this intricate web are followed and the mistakes which happen when they are not. The impressive process of differentiation changes a single-cell into a complicated system of cells as distinct as bold and bone. Although embryonic development takes approximately nine months, the greatest amount of cellular differentiation takes place during the first eight weeks of pregnancy. This period is called embryogenesis. During the first week after fertilization, which takes place in the Fallopian tube, the embryo starts to cleave once every twenty-four hours (Fig. 1). Until the eight or sixteen cell stage, the individual cells, or blastomeres, are thought to have the potential to form any part of the fetus (Leese, Conaghan, Martin, and Hardy, April 1993). As the blastomeres continue to divide, a solid ball of cells develops to form the morula (Fig. 1). The accumulation of fluid inside the morula, transforms it into a hollow sphere called a blastula, which implants itself into the inner lining of the uterus, the endometrium (Fig. 1). The inner mass of the blastula will produce the embryo, while the outer layer of cells will form the trophoblast, which eventually will provide nourishment to the ovum (Pritchard, MacDonald, and Gant, 1985). Figure 1:Implantation process and development during embryogenesis (Pritchard, MacDonald and Gant, 1985) During the second week of development, gastrulation, the process by which the germ layers are formed, begins to occur. The inner cell mass, now called the embryonic disc, differentiates into a thick plate of ectoderm and an underlying layer of endoderm. This cellular multiplication in the embryonic disc marks the beginning of a thickening in the midline that is called the primitive streak. Cells spread out laterally from the primiti... ...e a normal infant. When something does go wrong, the embryo or fetus will unfortunately have some type of defect. The amazing accuracy with which a single cell can become something as complex as a newborn infant is a truley incredible feat! Works Cited Baker, David A. "Danger of Varicella-Zoster Virus Infection." Contemporary OB/GYN April 1990: 52. Carlson, Bruce M. Patten's Foundations of Embryology. McGraw-Hill Inc. 1981. Cunningham, MacDonald, and Gant. Williams Obstetrics, Supplement no. 10. 18th ed, Prentice-Hall, Inc. Februay/March 1991: 2,3. "Folic Acid for the Prevetion of Recurrent Neural Tube Defect." Medicine March 1993. Harrison, Ross G. Organization and Develpment of the Embryo. Yale University Press. 1969. Leese, Conaghan, Martin, and Hardy. "Early Human Embryo Metabolism." Bio Essays vol. 15, No. 4 April 1993: 259. Pritchard, MacDonald, and Gant. Williams Obstetrics. 17th ed, Prentice-Hall, Inc. 1985: 139-142, 800. Pritchard, MacDonald, and Gant. Williams Obstetrics, Supplement no. 13. 17th ed, Prentice-Hall, Inc. July/August 1987: 2. "Teratology." ACOG Technical Bulletin February 1985.

Domestic and Community Violence against Women in USA Essay

Domestic violence in the United States is said to be high whereby, it is reported that over 700,000 Americans are victimized by the domestic violence according to the 2000 National Crime Victimization Survey. (Nocav and Bourbonnais, 2002) Domestic violence in the United States is said to come up as a result a result of poverty, gender inequality and even socio-economic factors. In this case we find that, the physical violence is defined as an intentional use of an individuals physical force with an objective of causing injury, harm or death these injuries are usually caused by either using a weapon, hitting or even kicking another person, while sexual violence is known as the physical force used to involve an individual into sexual acts against his will. Psychological violence or commonly known as the emotional violence that include the humiliation of an individual, controlling what an individual can do, it may also be practiced by withholding the victims information this act is usually applied to make the victim embarrassed, isolated and denied the right to enjoy his personal rights. The other type of abuse is the economic violence where we find that an abuser takes a complete control over the victims’ economic materials and resources. (Lupton, 2002) These differences are both biologically and socially determined where the social, cultural, economic and political forces are said to have brought variation in the position of different group of people in different societies globally. According to various research studies conducted we find that these domestic violence are especially caused by; the psychological factors which involve that personality and the characteristics of the stated offender and this may also carry a form of social hypothesis that normally consider the factors that are created externally in the offender’s surroundings, this may include the family structure, stress or even social classifications. (Draper, 1989) In some communities we find that violence comes up as a result of an individual seeking power or control over other members of the society, here we find that the abuser creates a negative impact on the victims, whereby they end up attributed to low self- esteem. An example for this practice in the United States is where women are said to be disadvantaged where they are being isolated in the distribution of income and consumption within the community. Where the share of the national income shows that there is inequality between women and men throughout the world, here women are said to have a significantly lower share of national income than men. Therefore we find that men regard themselves to be given a higher priority they practice gender discrimination where more women and children are forced by men in their families to do most work to produce food for the families in which men are proved to be taking control over family resources and yet they do not participate in their production. Through gender analysis of roles done by many institutions it is said that men contribute less than three hours in a day of their time to activities that is geared towards food production compared to women who do the bulk of the work here we find that the rights of women are being violated. Conclusion The main roles of the civil rights movement is to fight the domestic violence in the American society, under this we find that, the civil rights activists say that there are many ways of handling the domestic violence in our communities whereby the government plays a role of ensuring that commitments to equal rights and opportunities are upheld and delivered, by setting an enabling environment for all members of the American society at the country level and in the global community through the formulation and implementation of conferences and international conformities. Promote an active culture that emphasizes the right to formation and support the developmental activists to demand information from all sectors including government, other Non-Governmental organisations in order to promote local accountability to the victimized members of the community. The government should create an enabling environment which will influence change in policies, laws and institutions at national and international levels. (Draper, 1989) The other method that can be applied in dealing with domestic violence is the safety plan which is usually a plan that directed to the victim where he asked to act quickly so that he may remove himself from the dangers of the violence. This plan involve a specific plan of how to get out of the place, here the victim is advised to carry himself with the basic needs that will be required to be used when out of the place. Although partnerships are strengthening around a based purpose there is still so much for the governments affected by the fight over power to close the gaps in understanding and increase co-operation between the governments, the states and the civil societies. This recommendation is seen to be adversarial instead of being collaborative leading to little sharing of experience and good practice by the prominent people in the American society. References Lupton, R and Power, A. (2002): Social Exclusion & Neighborhoods. In Understanding Social Exclusion† Hills J, Le Grand J. & Piachaud D. Edn pp. 118- 140: Oxford: Oxford University Press. Burgess, R and Draper P. 1989 the explanation of family violence, the role of biological, Behavioral and cultural selection. Ohlin L. and Tonry M. Edn. Family Violence pp. 59-116 Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

Black History Essay

â€Å"The events which transpired five thousand years ago; Five years ago or five minutes ago, have determined what will happen five minutes from now; five years from now or five thousand years from now. All history is a current event† (John Henrik Clarke). These were the words of the awe inspiring pan African American writer, professor, and historian John Henrik Clarke. Being that of a well self-educated intellectual, John Henrik Clarke argued for the power of black history as well as of its importance. During Clarke’s time, January 1, 1915 to July 16, 1998, he became a very respected historian for his push for the importance of Africana Studies. The African American community saw him as an influential powerhouse as he portrayed and pioneered the formation of Africana studies in the United States. Many argued that African and African American history was not worthy of being studied but Clarke had his morals set otherwise. His role as an activist drove him to challenge academic historians to alter the way African and African American history was taught and seen throughout the U. S. Though some would dismiss his views and denounce the importance of the black community, he fought back illuminating the biases Eurocentric views has upon our society in the U. S. Clarke was a role model to many afroncentric views because of his leadership in redressing racist suppressions among African and African American history that was taught by traditional scholars. John Henrik Clarke’s accomplishments were great motivations for the advancement of black empowerment with the United States nation. In the film describing the life of Ida B. Wells, â€Å"A Passion for Justice†, Wells was also a teacher in the empowerment of the African culture. Her commonalities with that of John Henrik Clarke’s were one in the same. Both scholars sought for the equality of African American’s through history in a Eurocentric based nation. Wells had power in the press, and was formally known as the â€Å"Princess of the Press†. She had the power to change the ideals and views that African’s and white people had to a more afrocentric based thought. Her journal entries and news articles inspired many African American’s to leave the south and start boycotting for their rights as citizens. Both John Henrik Clarke and Ida B. Wells had one major thing in common, the power of the pen. Both leaders in the Black Power Movement, these two writers knew they could enrich the black culture by validating to them their history, and the way they are treated in society. Wells and Clarke wanted to show their fellow African American’s that they should not be afraid of the nation they live in, and that they should be treated with respect and equality. At one point during her tenure, Wells was forcefully asked to get off a train that she was on. She fought the racism by taking a stand and declining the man’s command. The case was taken to court and although the court was in favor of the white man, Wells exhibited true courage to fight against racist demands. Wells deeds formed her into a role model and praised icon; African American’s started to see how unfairly they are treated and began listening to Wells words of encouragement for the power of the Black culture in the U. S. Likewise, Clarke’s action to form black power through teaching history was also an inspiration to fight for their rights. Another film, â€Å"The Spirit of Allensworth†, was a focus on Lietenant Colonel Allen Allensworth. Allensworth was a very influential African American man who initially was a man born into slavery. His drive to become something rather then a slave pushed him to escape and educate himself illegally. He was then able to join the army and prove that African Americans are worthy of this nation and showed the black culture that their race can furthermore aid to the success of the United States. Just like Clarke’s push for black empowerment, Allensworth wanted to uplift the African American spirits and bring equality. Through this, Allensworth was able to create and establish the town of Allensworth, of course named after himself. Clarke and Allensworth both supported the study of the black culture and had similarities in being the founders of black empowerment. In the book â€Å"Black Women in White America†, by Greta Lerner, Lerner portrays various incidents and situations that mainly black African American women had had to go through in this white based nation. One quote expressed that â€Å"In black women’s liberation we don’t want to be equal with men, just like in black liberation we’re not fighting to be equal with the white man. We’re fighting for the right to be different and not be punished for it. Equal means sameness†, (Black Women in White America, pg. 608). This quote furthermore exhibits that the injustice that black women must tolerate is not just a matter of becoming equal with men and whites, but a symbol of being who we are, and ultimately being accepted for it. It is a portrayal of proving that each and every person is different and not the same, yet in order to live and prosper, we must have different qualities and talents that help our nation thrive. Going back to John Henrik Clarke’s notion, all he wanted was to display how that from learning from our past helps to embellish our American will and culture altogether. By learning history from all different cultures pasts, this can, in the future, help our nation become more advanced. But in turn, there are always those people who do not want to accept others for being different then themselves. Many African American’s, â€Å"Used to think that there was hope, that maybe black and white people together could solve all the problems. But I the recent years I learned it is not true†¦ I think that black people now have to go back to what I call the Reconstruction days in order that black people will be able to stand in dignity and freedom. Because there is no way for the son of a slave to stand up to a son of a master and be two people together- because the psychological position of both parties is still that one is slave and one is master. And it does not change. Black people have to get freedom for themselves; it cannot be given to them† (Black Women in White America, pg.555). As one can see, Clarke’s incentives are expressed throughout this quote. Because some cannot see past one’s ‘book cover’, then others must prove their worth to become accepted. It is not fair to the black culture but if African’s do not step up to the plate and claim their rights, their power will just then be pushed further back. John Henrik Clarke fought for black empowerment, and his accomplishments are an inspiration too many African American’s to take a positive step forward in black power advancement. The book â€Å"From Slavery to Freedom†, by John Hope Franklin, acknowledges â€Å"The treatment of black troops throughout the war reflected how entrapped African Americans were in a Jim Crow society, no matter how vital or brave their service†¦ Blacks were subjected to racial insults†¦ African American soldiers vigorously protested these and other insults to their officers and, through letters to newspapers, to the American public†¦ Most exercised restraint, however, enduring insults and mistreatment in the belief that by demonstrating an indifference to racism, as well as by showing their patriotism, they would strengthen their race’s claims to equal treatment† (From Slavery to Freedom, pg. 331). This relates to Clarke’s approach towards seeking a positive change in the African American society within the United States. Blacks, no matter how good their deeds were, were still subjected to racial insults. The quality of black troops aiding in the American infantry portrays progressing black empowerment within the American culture. By stepping forth, like John Henrik Clarke, and proving their worth, these black soldiers become role models to other blacks and every other race as well to show how through toil and suffrage, they were still helpful in their nation’s success. African American’s were very prominent in the military and, â€Å"Performed all kinds of services in the union army. Organized into raiding parties, they were sent through Confederate lines to destroy fortifications and supplies. Since they knew southern country sides better than most white soldiers and could pass themselves off as slaves, they were extensively used as spies and scouts. White officers relied upon information secured by black spies† (From Slavery to Freedom, pg. 239). Without the help from black soldiers, the confederate army would have had the upper hand in the south. The former slaves knowledge from their past, helped to defeat enemy lines and furthermore help out the north’s prosperity. Because of the assistant from the former African American slaves, their freedom the south and cultural empowerment was escalated. This kind of knowledge helped to determine Clarke’s way of proving African American’s value in their past history. The text by Lawrence Graham, â€Å"Our Kind of People†, engages in the more privileged black community in the U. S. â€Å"Free blacks in the South were generally required to carry papers proving that they were not slaves and were required to register annually in their counties, listing their white guardians. However they were permitted to work for money and to own property, thus creating the first opportunity for blacks to establish their families with some moderate wealth† (Our Kind of People, pg. 8). This furthermore exemplifies the push that former slaves had strived towards in order to gain freedom and obtain financial support for themselves. Though starting at the bottom with nothing, newly freed African Americans were able to establish themselves and their families by working. Like stated before, becoming equal with the whites was not going to come easy or fair, but with work and help from each other, progressing towards African cultural empowerment was going to be inevitable. â€Å"When slaves were brought to Washington, a large concentration of them lived and worked in the Georgetown area. From there, they built roads and erected many of the government buildings and monuments. In the 1790s, Benjamin Banneker, a free black man, surveyed the city and designed the grid for the city’s main avenues and streets† (Our Kind of People, pg. 219). Washington is of much importance to our country, and without the contributions of the freed slaves, many of the nation’s government’s buildings and roads would have not been built during that time. In turn, this also exemplifies the impact even one African American had upon society. Just like everyone else or ever a white person, it was a black man that helped to design the basis of the city’s mainframe. Again, with the knowledge and help from African American history, in the eyes of John Henrik Clarke, more good to this nation is preformed. Though African Americans fought their way to freedom, â€Å"Their incomes, however substantial, and status, however high ranking, did not shield them from the ugly sting of racism, which is likely to never be completely rooted out in this country† (Jason Donovan). As much as racism is a terrible factor to have upon our society, their will always be those who will not let it go; and as black empowerment keeps progressing forward, the American culture will soon phase it out. Looking back in history, â€Å"We as a people, African-American’s, continue to strive and overcome the struggle. With our multicultural race; what you see is not always who we are†¦ You may see an African-American man, woman, boy or girl; each may have a different complexion on their exterior but their image does not define who they are† (Monique Washington). Many are so preoccupied with the color of skin and one’s appearance that they are all blinded by what good everyone is capable of doing. John Henrik Clarke’s aim for African American knowledge is not necessarily just to learn about African’s, but to teach of how many black American’s helped to contribute to America’s good fortune and personality. America is mixed with every kind of culture and without the history of blacks; our nation would not be where it would be today. â€Å"After decades of silently enduring second-class citizenship, blacks in the late 1940s and early 1950s began to challenge the injustices they faced on a daily basis. Although segregation in public facilities other than schools was rarely questioned during this time period, blacks were slowly gaining the resolve to finally stand up to Jim Crow† (Lisa Cozzens). It is a never ending sequence of fighting racism, prejudice, and inequality, but validates that in time, black empowerment will not be overlooked by America anymore. Just like how John Henrik Clarke stood up for the knowledge of African American studies, It was crucial for blacks to stand up to the unfair laws of Jim Crow. By fighting these laws, this gave a passageway to show power and courage in the black community, and that the unjustified rules of society can be overpowered by what is morally right. It is exclaimed that, â€Å"For too many years, black Americans marched and had their heads broken and got shot. They were saying to the country, â€Å"Look, you guys are supposed to be nice guys and we are only going to do what we are supposed to do—why do you beat us up, why don’t you give us what we ask, why don’t you straighten yourselves out? † After years of this, we are at almost the same point—because we demonstrated from a position of weakness. We cannot be expected any longer to march and have our heads broken in order to say to whites: come on, you’re nice guys. For you are not nice guys. We have found you out† (Stokely Carmichael: Black Power). This overall implies the injustice that early whites had put upon the black culture, and the fight back to show strength and not weakness. African’s and African American’s alike had taken so much intolerable pain in the past, and is finally standing up to unfair discrimination. It was implied for the longest time that what the white man was doing was right, but have been found out that their actions were in favor of supporting their own benefits, especially that of the southern states. The slavery exhibited through the southern states were awful and inhuman like, but, â€Å"Despite overall harsh conditions and the absence of freedom, slaves were not just powerless victims of their owners and the slave system†¦ though their lives were circumscribed in many significant ways, they sought to make the best of their circumstances. They succeeded to a remarkable extent, a testimonial to the endurance of the human spirit† (Pre-Civil War African American Slavery). Black empowerment and the spirits of their ancestors were never fully crushed. Even through the torture seen throughout the history of slavery, there was never giving up hope that one day life would get better for blacks, and initially everyone in the nation. As it comes closer to the future, black empowerment still continues to advance in culture, race, history, and throughout the American society, but only if African American keep pushing for their rights. â€Å"Blacks were told that it was up to them to improve their lives. Black Power advocates encouraged blacks to form or join all-black political parties that could provide a formidable power base and offer a foundation for real socioeconomic progress† (Black Power Movement). The Black Power movement instilled a sense of racial pride and self-esteem in blacks. Black empowerment will not advance unless people like John Henrik Clarke stand up and portray their knowledge and integrity. John Henrik Clarke’s main incentive was to merely educate the world about African history and how everything that happened in the past will always affect our nation and how we all live today. It is seen through the past all the injustice that blacks suffered through and endured and that in order for that to change, African American pride must step up to the plate and obtain its place in society. African American’s were first brought here to be used and abused, but in turn have helped the advancement of the America itself as well as its culture. It is only right that blacks have a right to power within the nation as well as within themselves. Works Cited â€Å"Black Power Movement – Blacks, Rights, Whites, Civil, White, and Racial. † Web. 27 Nov. 2010. . Cozzens, Lisa. â€Å"Early Civil Rights Struggles: Introduction. † Www. watson. org. 29 June 1998. Web. 27 Nov. 2010. . Donovan, Jason. â€Å"Idlewild: A ‘Black Eden’ for African Americans. † Michigan Chronicle 13 Oct. 2010: 1-2. ProQuest. Web. 27 Nov. 2010. . Franklin, John Hope, and Alfred A. Moss. â€Å"Chapter 11/Civil War. † From Slavery to Freedom: a History of African Americans. 8th ed. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2000. 239. Franklin, John Hope, and Alfred A. Moss. â€Å"Chapter 15/The Color Line. † From Slavery to Freedom: a History of African Americans. 8th ed. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2000. 331. Graham, Lawrence O. â€Å"Chapter 1/The Origins of the Black Upper Class. † Our Kind of People: inside America’s Black Upper Class. New York: HarperCollins, 1999. 8. Graham, Lawrence O. â€Å"Chapter 10/Black Elite in Washington, D. C. † Our Kind of People: inside America’s Black Upper Class. New York: HarperCollins, 1999. 219. Lerner, Gerda. â€Å"Chapter 9/Race Pride, The Only Thing You Can Aspire to Is Nationhood. † Black Women in White America; a Documentary History. New York: Pantheon, 1972. 555. Lerner, Gerda. â€Å"Chapter 10/Black Women Speak of Womanhood, I Want the Right to Be Black and Me. † Black Women in White America; a Documentary History. New York: Pantheon, 1972. 608. â€Å"Pre-Civil War African American Slavery. † National Expansion and Reform, 1815-1880. 26 Sept. 2002. Web. 27 Nov. 2010. . â€Å"Stokely Carmichael: Black Power (1966). † Encyclop? dia Britannica. New York Review of Books, 22 Sept. 1966. Web. 27 Nov. 2010. . Washington, Monique. â€Å"Changing History Is Changing Minds. † Los Angeles Sentinel.

Exploring the Mind of Internet Addicts Essay

Addiction is a commonly used word that is mostly associated with a substance(drug or alcohol) and sometimes thought of as an illness. We often hear the word addiction thrown around in conversations. I’ve often used the word addiction when referring to my love of chocolate, but in this case it’s just an expression of speech. For a long time now, though, a lot of controversy has been going on about adding other activities, other than substance use to the word addiction. In this case excessive use of the Internet, Internet Addiction(IA). Many people are wanting to take addiction to a whole new level, by adding Internet Addiction to the DSM-V (Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, Fifth Edition; in other words the â€Å"psychiatric bible†) but is our need, love, desire, and excessive use of the internet just a compulsion or an addiction? Addiction is when a person is dependent on a behavior or specific substance in order to cope with life. The dependence is so important to the individual that even when it becomes harmful to themselves, their family, work, and other important areas of their life they will persist in using the substance, or engaging in the behavior. Also, â€Å"There are actual changes that occur in the brains of addicts and treatments for addiction must address the biology behind the behavior.† So far addictions have focused on highs that are caused from the use of drugs or other substances that affect the brain’s chemical responses. However it has recently been discovered that a person can receive a similar â€Å"high† from using the Internet. The research for this disorder is scarce and fairly new, but the results leave something to argue about for the supporting side. Overly excessive use of the Internet affects everyone involved with the â€Å"user.† There have been con fessions from individuals who claim to suffer from IAD (Internet Addiction Disorder). A case was, reported in the New York Times, A woman who had been divorced by her husband because of her excessive use of the Internet. Still the woman did not come to her senses and continued to use the internet so much that she forgot to buy food for her children, to take them to doctor appointments, and to buy enough oil to warm her home.(Maria Garcia Duran) Sounds like an addiction, but this still doesn’t fit the whole criteria. Remember you have to experience a chemical effect in the brain when your considering an obsessive need for something to be a diagnose as an addiction. There may be some alternative chemical change in her brain, such as the internet use is causing her to be happy, which means endorphins are being released to the brain. But this article isn’t clear on whether the internet use really makes her happy, or helps her hide from reality which may still leave her with the same mood set, but just in hiding. Most people who think they are addicted may just be suffering from the desire to not want to deal with other problems going on in their lives. Those problems may in fact be a mental disorder like anxiety or depression. It may be a a relationship problem, serious disability or health problem. The internet use is no different than TV use, so you won’t have to â€Å"go out with the boys† for drinks or talking to your spouse. Others who spend to much time online with out any other problems present may just be suffering from compulsive over-use.

Bag of Bones CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

I reached for Ki with the part of my mind that had for the last few weeks known what she was wearing, what room of the trailer she was in, and what she was doing there. There was nothing, of course that link was also dissolved. I called for Jo I think I did but Jo was gone, too. I was on my own. God help me. God help us both. I could feel panic trying to descend and fought it off. I had to keep my mind clear. If I couldn't think, any chance Ki might still have would be lost. I walked rapidly back down the hall to the foyer, trying not to hear the sick voice in the back of my head, the one saying that Ki was lost already, dead already. I knew no such thing, couldn't know it now that the connection between us was broken. I looked down at the heap of books, then up at the door. The new tracks had come in this way and gone out this way, too. Lightning stroked the sky and thunder cracked. The wind was rising again. I went to the door, reached for the knob, then paused. Something was caught in the crack between the door and the jamb, something as fine and floaty as a strand of spider's silk. A single white hair. I looked at it with a sick lack of surprise. I should have known, of course, and if not for the strain I'd been under and the successive shocks of this terrible day, I would have known. It was all on the tape John had played for me that morning . . . a time that already seemed part of another man's life. For one thing, there was the time-check marking the point where John had hung up on her. Nine-forty A.M., Eastern Daylight, the robot voice had said, which meant that Rogette had been calling at six-forty in the morning . . . if, that was, she'd really been calling from Palm Springs. That was at least possible; had the oddity occurred to me while we were driving from the airport to Mattie's trailer, I would have told myself that there were no doubt insomniacs all over California who finished their East Coast business before the sun had hauled itself fully over the horizon, and good for them. But there was something else that couldn't be explained away so easily. At one point John had ejected the tape. He did it because, he said, I'd gone as white as a sheet instead of looking amused. I had told him to go on and play the rest; it had just surprised me to hear her again. The quality of her voice. Christ, the reproduction is good. Except it was really the boys in the basement who had reacted to John's tape; my subconscious co-conspirators. And it hadn't been her voice that had scared them badly enough to turn my face white. The underhum had done that. The characteristic underhum you always got on TR calls, both those you made and those you received. Rogette Whitmore had never left TR-90 at all. If my failing to realize that this morning cost Ki Devore her life this afternoon, I wouldn't be able to live with myself. I told God that over and over as I went plunging down the railroad-tie steps again, running into the face of a revitalized storm. It's a blue-eyed wonder I didn't go flying right off the embankment. Half my swimming float had grounded there, and perhaps I could have impaled myself on its splintered boards and died like a vampire writhing on a stake. What a pleasant thought that was. Running isn't good for people near panic; it's like scratching poison ivy. By the time I had thrown my arm around one of the pines at the foot of the steps to check my progress, I was on the edge of losing all coherent thought. Ki's name was beating in my head again, so loudly there wasn't room for much else. Then a stroke of lightning leaped out of the sky to my right and knocked the last three feet of trunk out from beneath a huge old spruce which had probably been here when Sara and Kito were still alive. If I'd been looking directly at it I would have been blinded; even with my head turned three-quarters away, the stroke left a huge blue swatch like the aftermath of a gigantic camera flash floating in front of my eyes. There was a grinding, juddering sound as two hundred feet of blue spruce toppled into the lake, sending up a long curtain of spray, which seemed to hang between the gray sky and gray water. The stump was on fire in the rain, burning like a witch's hat. It had the effect of a slap, clearing my head and giving me one final chance to use my brain. I took a breath and forced myself to do just that. Why had I come down here in the first place? Why did I think Rogette had brought Kyra toward the lake, where I had just been, instead of carrying her away from me, up the driveway to Lane Forty-two? Don't be stupid. She came down here because The Street's the way back to Warrington's, and Warrington's is where she's been, all by herself, ever since she sent the boss's body back to California in his private jet. She had sneaked into the house while I was under Jo's studio, finding the tin box in the belly of the owl and studying that scrap of genealogy. She would have taken Ki then if I'd given her the chance, but I didn't. I came hurrying back, afraid something was wrong, afraid someone might be trying to get hold of the kid Had Rogette awakened her? Had Ki seen her and tried to warn me before drifting off again? Was that what had brought me in such a hurry? Maybe. I'd still been in the zone then, we'd still been linked then. Rogette had certainly been in the house when I came back. She might even have been in the north-bedroom closet and peering at me through the crack. Part of me had known it, too. Part of me had felt her, felt something that was not-Sara. Then I'd left again. Grabbed the carry-bag from Slips ‘n Greens and come down here. Turned right, turned north. Toward the birch, the rock, the bag of bones. I'd done what I had to do, and while I was doing it, Rogette carried Kyra down the railroad-tie steps behind me and turned left on The Street. Turned south toward Warrington's. With a sinking feeling deep in my belly, I realized I had probably heard Ki . . . might even have seen her. That bird peeking timidly out from cover during the lull had been no bird. Ki was awake by then, Ki had seen me perhaps had seen Jo, as well and tried to call out. She had managed just that one little peep before Rogette had covered her mouth. How long ago had that been? It seemed like forever, but I had an idea it hadn't been long at all less than five minutes, maybe. But it doesn't take long to drown a child. The image of Kito's bare arm sticking straight out of the water tried to come back the hand at the end of it opening and closing, opening and closing, as if it were trying to breathe for the lungs that couldn't and I pushed it away. I also suppressed the urge to simply sprint in the direction of Warrington's. Panic would take me for sure if I did that. In all the years since her death I had never longed for Jo with the bitter intensity I felt then. But she was gone; there wasn't even a whisper of her. With no one to depend on but myself, I started south along the tree-littered Street, skirting the blowdowns where I could, crawling under them if they blocked my way entirely, taking the noisy branch-breaking course over the top only as a last resort. As I went I issued what I imagine are all the standard prayers in such a situation, but none of them seemed to get past the image of Rogette Whitmore's face rising in my mind. Her screaming, merciless face. I remember thinking This is the outdoor version of the Ghost House. Certainly the woods seemed haunted to me as I struggled along: trees only loosened in the first grand blow were falling by the score in this follow-up cap of wind and rain. The noise was like great crunching footfalls, and I didn't need to worry about the noise my own feet were making. When I passed the Batchelders' camp, a circular prefab construction sitting on an outcrop of rock like a hat on a footstool, I saw that the entire roof had been bashed flat by a hemlock. Half a mile south of Sara I saw one of Ki's white hair ribbons lying in the path. I picked it up, thinking how much that red edging looked like blood. Then I stuffed it into my pocket and went on. Five minutes later I came to an old moss-caked pine that had fallen across the path; it was still connected to its stump by a stretched and bent network of splinters, and squalled like a line of rusty hinges as the surging water lifted and dropped what had been its upper twenty or thirty feet, now floating in the lake. There was space to crawl under, and when I dropped to my knees I saw other knee-tracks, just beginning to fill with water. I saw something else: the second hair ribbon. I tucked it into my pocket with the first. I was halfway under the pine when I heard another tree go over, this one much closer. The sound was followed by a scream not pain or fear but surprised anger. Then, even over the hiss of the rain and the wind, I could hear Rogette's voice: ‘Come back! Don't go out there, it's dangerous!' I squirmed the rest of the way under the tree, barely feeling the stump of a branch which tore a groove in my lower back, got to my feet, and sprinted along the path. If the fallen trees I came to were small, I hurdled them without slowing down. If they were bigger, I scrabbled over with no thought to where they might claw or dig in. Thunder whacked. There was a brilliant stroke of lightning, and in its glare I saw gray barnboard through the trees. On the day I'd first seen Rogette I'd only been able to catch glimpses of Warrington's lodge, but now the forest had been torn open like an old garment this area would be years recovering. The lodge's rear half had been pretty well demolished by a pair of huge trees that seemed to have fallen together. They had crossed like a knife and fork on a diner's plate and lay on the ruins in a shaggy X. Ki's voice, rising over the storm only because it was shrill with terror: ‘Go away! I don't want you, white nana! Go away!' It was horrible to hear the terror in her voice, but wonderful to hear her voice at all. About forty feet from where Rogette's shout had frozen me in place, one more tree lay across the path. Rogette herself stood on the far side of it, holding a hand out to Ki. The hand was dripping blood, but I hardly noticed. It was Kyra I noticed. The dock running between The Street and The Sunset Bar was a long one seventy feet at least, perhaps a hundred. Long enough so that on a pretty summer evening you could stroll it hand-in-hand with your date or your lover and make a memory. The storm hadn't torn it away not yet but the wind had twisted it like a ribbon. I remember newsreel footage at some childhood Saturday matinee, film of a suspension bridge dancing in a hurricane, and that was what the dock between Warring-ton's and The Sunset Bar looked like. It jounced up and down in the surging water, groaning in all its slatted joints like a wooden accordion. There had been a rail presumably to guide those who'd made a heavy night of it safely back to shore but it was gone now. K yra was halfway out along this swaying, dipping length of wood. I could see at least three rectangles of blackness between the shore and where she stood, places where boards had snapped off. From beneath the dock came the disturbed clung-clung-clung of the empty steel drums that were holding it up. Several of these drums had come unanchored and were floating away. Ki had her arms stretched out for balance like a tightrope walker in the circus. The black Harley-Davidson tee-shirt flapped around her knees and sunburned shoulders. ‘Come back!' Rogette cried. Her lank hair flew around her head; the shiny black raincoat she was wearing rippled. She was holding both hands out now, one bloody and one not. I had an idea Ki might have bitten her. ‘No, white nana!' Ki shook her head in wild negation and I wanted to tell her don't do that, Ki-bird, don't shake your head like that, very bad idea. She tottered, one arm pointed up at the sky and one down at the water so she looked for a moment like an airplane in a steep bank. If the dock had picked that moment to take a hard buck beneath her, Ki would have spilled off the side. She regained some precarious balance instead, although I thought I saw her bare feet slide a little on the slick boards. ‘Go away, white nana, I don't want you! Go . . . go take a nap, you look tired!' Ki didn't see me; all her attention was fixed on the white nana. The white nana didn't see me, either. I dropped to my belly and squirmed under the tree, pulling myself along with my clawed hands. Thunder rolled across the lake like a big mahogany ball, the sound echoing off the mountains. When I got to my knees again, I saw that Rogette was advancing slowly toward the shore end of the dock. For every step she took forward, Kyra took a shaky, dangerous step backward. Rogette was holding her good hand out, though for a moment I thought this one had begun to bleed as well. The stuff running through her bunchy fingers was too dark for blood, however, and when she began to talk, speaking in a hideous coaxing voice that made my skin crawl, I realized it was melting chocolate. ‘Let's play the game, Ki-bird,' Rogette cooed. ‘Do you want to start?' She took a step. Ki took a compensatory step backward, tottered, caught her balance. My heart stopped, then resumed racing. I closed the distance between myself and the woman as rapidly as I could, but I didn't run; I didn't want her to know a thing until she woke up. If she woke up. I didn't care if she did or not. Hell, if I could fracture the back of George Footman's skull with a hammer, I could certainly put a hurt on this horror. As I walked, I laced my hands together into one large fist. ‘No? Don't want to start? Too shy?' Rogette spoke in a sugary Romper Room voice that made me want to grind my teeth together. ‘All right, I'll start. Happy! What rhymes with happy, Ki-bird? Pappy . . . and nappy . . . you were taking a nappy, weren't you, when I came and woke you up. And lappy . . . would you want to come and sit on my lappy, Ki-bird? We'll feed each other chocolate, just like we used to . . . I'll tell you a new knock-knock joke . . . ‘ Another step. She had come to the edge of the dock. If she'd thought of it, she could simply have thrown rocks at Kyra as she had at me, thrown until she connected with one and knocked Ki into the lake. But I don't think she got even close to such a notion. Once crazy goes past a certain point, you're on a turnpike with no exit ramps. Rogette had other plans for Kyra. ‘Come on, Ki-Ki, play the game with white nana.' She held out the chocolate again, gooey Hershey's Kisses dripping through crumpled foil. Kyra's eyes shifted, and at last she saw me. I shook my head, trying to tell her to be quiet, but it was no good an expression of joyous relief crossed her face. She cried out my name, and I saw Rogette's shoulders go up in surprise. I ran the last dozen feet, raising my joined hands like a club, but I slipped a little on the wet ground at the crucial moment and Rogette made a kind of ducking cringe. Instead of striking her at the back of the neck as I'd meant to, my joined hands only glanced off her shoulder. She staggered, went to one knee, and was up again almost at once. Her eyes were like little blue arc-lamps, spitting rage instead of electricity. ‘You!' she said, hissing the word over the top of her tongue, turning it into the sound of some ancient curse: Heeyuuuu! Behind us Kyra screamed my name, stagger-dancing on the wet wood and waving her arms in an effort to keep from falling in the lake. Water slopped onto the deck and ran over her small bare feet. ‘Hold on, Ki!' I called back. Rogette saw my attention shift and took her chance she spun and ran out onto the dock. I sprang after her, grabbed her by the hair, and it came off in my hand. All of it. I stood there at the edge of the surging lake with her mat of white hair dangling from my fist like a scalp. Rogette looked over her shoulder, snarling, an ancient bald gnome in the rain, and I thought It's him, it's Devore, he never died at all, somehow he and the woman swapped identities, she was the one who committed suicide, it was her body that went back to California on the jet Even as she turned the other way again and began to run toward Ki, I knew better. It was Rogette, all right, but she'd come by that hideous resemblance honestly. Whatever was wrong with her had done more than make her hair fall out; it had aged her as well. Seventy, I'd thought, but that had to be at least ten years beyond the actual mark. I've known a lot of folks name their kids alike, Mrs M. had told me. They think it's cute. Max Devore must have thought so, too, because he had named a son Roger and his daughter Rogette. Perhaps she'd come by the Whitmore part honestly she might have been married in her younger years but once the wig was gone, her antecedents were beyond argument. The woman tottering along the wet dock to finish the job was Kyra's aunt. Ki began to back up rapidly, making no effort to be careful and pick her footing. She was going into the drink; there was no way she could stay up. But before she could fall, a wave slapped the dock between them at a place where some of the barrels had come loose and the slatted walkway was already partly submerged. Foamy water flew up and began to twist into one of those helix shapes I had seen before. Rogette stopped ankle-deep in the water sloshing over the dock, and I stopped about twelve feet behind her. The shape solidified, and even before I could make out the face I recognized the baggy shorts with their fading swirls of color and the smock top. Only Kmart sells smock tops of such perfect shapelessness; I think it may be a federal law. It was Mattie. A grave gray Mattie, looking at Rogette with grave gray eyes. Rogette raised her hands, tottered, tried to turn. At that moment a wave surged under the dock, making it rise and then drop like an amusement-park ride. Rogette went over the side. Beyond her, beyond the water-shape in the rain, I could see Ki sprawling on the porch of The Sunset Bar. That last heave had flipped her to temporary safety like a human tiddlywink. Mattie was looking at me, her lips moving, her eyes on mine. I had been able to tell what Jo was saying, but this time I had no idea. I tried with all my might, but I couldn't make it out. ‘Mommy! Mommy!' The figure didn't so much turn as revolve; it didn't actually seem to be there below the hem of the long shorts. It moved up the dock to the bar, where Ki was now standing with her arms held out. Something grabbed at my foot. I looked down and saw a drowning apparition in the surging water. Dark eyes stared up at me from beneath the bald skull. Rogette was coughing water from between lips that were as purple as plums. Her free hand waved weakly up at me. The fingers opened . . . and closed. Opened . . . and closed. I dropped to one knee and took it. It clamped over mine like a steel claw and she yanked, trying to pull me in with her. The purple lips peeled back from yellow toothpegs like those in Sara's skull. And yes I thought that this time Rogette was the one laughing. I rocked on my haunches and yanked her up. I didn't think about it; it was pure instinct. I had her by at least a hundred pounds, and three quarters of her came out of the lake like a gigantic, freakish trout. She screamed, darted her head forward, and buried her teeth in my wrist. The pain was immediate and enormous. I jerked my arm up even higher and then brought it down, not thinking about hurting her, wanting only to rid myself of that weasel's mouth. Another wave hit the half-submerged dock as I did. Its rising, splintered edge impaled Rogette's descending face. One eye popped; a dripping yellow splinter ran up her nose like a dagger; the scant skin of her forehead split, snapping away from the bone like two suddenly released windowshades. Then the lake pulled her away. I saw the torn topography of her face a moment longer, upturned into the torrential rain, wet and as pale as the light from a fluorescent bar. Then she rolled over, her black vinyl raincoat swirling around her li ke a shroud. What I saw when I looked back toward The Sunset Bar was another glimpse under the skin of this world, but one far different from the face of Sara in the Green Lady or the snarling, half-glimpsed shape of the Outsider. Kyra stood on the wide wooden porch in front of the bar amid a litter of overturned wicker furniture. In front of her was a waterspout in which I could still see very faintly the fading shape of a woman. She was on her knees, holding her arms out. They tried to embrace. Ki's arms went through Mattie and came out dripping. ‘Mommy, I can't get you!' The woman in the water was speaking I could see her lips moving. Ki looked at her, rapt. Then, for just a moment Mattie turned to me. Our eyes met, and hers were made of the lake. They were Dark Score, which was here long before I came and will remain long after I am gone. I put my hands to my mouth, kissed my palms, and held them out to her. Shimmery hands went up, as if to catch those kisses. ‘Mommy don't go!' Kyra screamed, and flung her arms around the figure. She was immediately drenched and backed away with her eyes squinched shut, coughing. There was no longer a woman with her; there was only water running across the boards and dripping through the cracks to rejoin the lake, which comes up from deep springs far below, from the fissures in the rock which underlies the TR and all this part of our world. Moving carefully, doing my own balancing act, I made my way out along the wavering dock to The Sunset Bar. When I got there I took Kyra in my arms. She hugged me tight, shivering fiercely against me. I could hear the small dicecup rattle of her teeth and smell the lake in her hair. ‘Mattie came,' she said. ‘I know. I saw her.' ‘Mattie made the white nana go away.' ‘I saw that, too. Be very still now, Ki. We're going back to solid ground, but you can't move around a lot. If you do, we'll end up swimming.' She was good as gold. When we were on The Street again and I tried to put her down, she clung to my neck fiercely. That was okay with me. I thought of taking her into Warrington's, but didn't. There would be towels in there, probably dry clothes as well, but I had an idea there might also be a bathtub full of warm water waiting in there. Besides, the rain was slackening again and this time the sky looked lighter in the west. ‘What did Mattie tell you, hon?' I asked as we walked north along The Street. Ki would let me put her down so we could crawl under the downed trees we came to, but raised her arms to be picked up again on the far side of each. ‘To be a good girl and not be sad. But I am sad. I'm very sad.' She began to cry, and I stroked her wet hair. By the time we got to the railroad-tie steps she had cried herself out . . . and over the mountains in the west, I could see one small but very brilliant wedge of blue. ‘All the woods fell down,' Ki said, looking around. Her eyes were very wide. ‘Well . . . not all, but a lot of them, I guess.' Halfway up the steps I paused, puffing and seriously winded. I didn't ask Ki if I could put her down, though. I didn't want to put her down. I just wanted to catch my breath. ‘Mike?' ‘What, doll?' ‘Mattie told me something else.' ‘What?' ‘Can I whisper?' ‘If you want to, sure.' Ki leaned close, put her lips to my ear, and whispered. I listened. When she was done I nodded, kissed her cheek, shifted her to the other hip, and carried her the rest of the way up to the house. ‘T'wasn't the stawm of the century, chummy, and don't you go thinkin that it was. Nossir. So said the old-timers who sat in front of the big Army medics' tent that served as the Lakeview General that late summer and fall. A huge elm had toppled across Route 68 and bashed the store in like a Saltines box. Adding injury to insult, the elm had carried a bunch of spitting live lines with it. They ignited propane from a ruptured tank, and the whole thing went kaboom. The tent was a pretty good warm-weather substitute, though, and folks on the TR took to saying they was going down to the MASH for bread and beer this because you could still see a faded red cross on both sides of the tent's roof. The old-timers sat along one canvas wall in folding chairs, waving to other old-timers when they went pooting by in their rusty old-timer cars (all certified old-timers own either Fords or Chevys, so I'm well on my way in that regard), swapping their undershirts for flannels as the days began to cool toward cider season and spud-digging, watching the township start to rebuild itself around them. And as they watched they talked about the ice storm of the past winter, the one that knocked out lights and splintered a million trees between Kittery and Fort Kent; they talked about the cyclones that touched down in August of 1985; they talked about the sleet hurricane of 1927. Now there was some stawms, they said. There was some stawms, by Gorry. I'm sure they've got a point, and I don't argue with them you rarely win an argument with a genuine Yankee old-timer, never if it's about the weather but for me the storm of July 21, 1998, will always be the storm. And I know a little girl who feels the same. She may live until 2100, given all the benefits of modern medicine, but I think that for Kyra Elizabeth Devore that will always be the storm. The one where her dead mother came to her dressed in the lake. The first vehicle to come down my driveway didn't arrive until almost six o'clock. It turned out to be not a Castle County police car but a yellow bucket-loader with flashing yellow lights on top of the cab and a guy in a Central Maine Power Company slicker working the controls. The guy in the other seat was a cop, though was in fact Norris Ridgewick, the County Sheriff himself. And he came to my door with his gun drawn. The change in the weather the TV guy had promised had already arrived, clouds and storm-cells driven east by a chilly wind running just under gale force. Trees had continued to fall in the dripping woods for at least an hour after the rain stopped. Around five o'clock I made us toasted-cheese sandwiches and tomato soup . . . comfort food, Jo would have called it. Kyra ate listlessly, but she did eat, and she drank a lot of milk. I had wrapped her in another of my tee-shirts and she tied her own hair back. I offered her the white ribbons, but she shook her head decisively and opted for a rubber band instead. ‘I don't like those ribbons anymore,' she said. I decided I didn't, either, and threw them away. Ki watched me do it and offered no objection. Then I crossed the living room to the woodstove. ‘What are you doing?' She finished her second glass of milk, wriggled off her chair, and came over to me. ‘Making a fire. Maybe all those hot days thinned my blood. That's what my mom would have said, anyway.' She watched silently as I pulled sheet after sheet from the pile of paper I'd taken off the table and stacked on top of the woodstove, balled each one up, and slipped it in through the door. When I felt I'd loaded enough, I began to lay bits of kindling on top. ‘What's written on those papers?' Ki asked. ‘Nothing important.' ‘Is it a story?' ‘Not really. It was more like . . . oh, I don't know. A crossword puzzle. Or a letter.' ‘Pretty long letter,' she said, and then laid her head against my leg as if she were tired. ‘Yeah,' I said. ‘Love letters usually are, but keeping them around is a bad idea.' ‘Why?' ‘Because they . . . ‘ Can come back to haunt you was what rose to mind, but I wouldn't say it. ‘Because they can embarrass you in later life.' ‘Oh.' ‘Besides,' I said. ‘These papers are like your ribbons, in a way.' ‘You don't like them anymore.' ‘Right.' She saw the box then the tin box with JO'S NOTIONS written on the front. It was on the counter between the living room and the sink, not far from where old Krazy Kat had hung on the wall. I didn't remember bringing the box up from the studio with me, but I suppose I might not have; I was pretty freaked. I also think it could have come up . . . kind of by itself. I do believe such things now; I have reason to. Kyra's eyes lit up in a way they hadn't since she had wakened from her short nap to find out her mother was dead. She stood on tiptoe to take hold of the box, then ran her small fingers across the gilt letters. I thought about how important it was for a kid to own a tin box. You had to have one for your secret stuff the best toy, the prettiest bit of lace, the first piece of jewelry. Or a picture of your mother, perhaps. ‘This is so . . . pretty,' she said in a soft, awed voice. ‘You can have it if you don't mind it saying JO'S NOTIONS instead of ‘KI'S NOTIONS. There are some papers in it I want to read, but I could put them somewhere else.' She looked at me to make sure I wasn't kidding, saw I wasn't. ‘I'd love it,' she said in the same soft, awed voice. I took the box from her, scooped out the steno books, notes, and clippings, then handed it back to Ki. She practiced taking the lid off and then putting it back on. ‘Guess what I'll put in here,' she said. ‘Secret treasures?' ‘Yes!' she said, and actually smiled for a moment. ‘Who was Jo, Mike? Do I know her? I do, don't I? She was one of the fridgearator people.' ‘She ‘ A thought occurred. I shuffled through the yellowed clippings. Nothing. I thought I'd lost it somewhere along the way, then saw a corner of what I was looking for peeking from the middle of one of the steno notebooks. I slid it out and handed it to Ki. ‘What is it?' ‘A backwards photo. Hold it up to the light.' She did, and looked for a long time, rapt. Faint as a dream I could see my wife in her hand, my wife standing on the swimming float in her two-piece suit. ‘That's Jo,' I said. ‘She's pretty. I'm glad to have her box for my things.' ‘I am too, Ki.' I kissed the top of her head. When Sheriff Ridgewick hammered on the door, I thought it wise to answer with my hands up. He looked wired. What seemed to ease the situation was a simple, uncalculated question. ‘Where's Alan Pangborn these days, Sheriff?' ‘Over New Hampshire,' Ridgewick said, lowering his pistol a little (a minute or two later he holstered it without even seeming to be aware he had done so). ‘He and Polly are doing real well. Except for her arthritis. That's nasty, I guess, but she still has her good days. A person can go along quite awhile if they get a good day every once and again, that's what I think. Mr. Noonan, I have a lot of questions for you. You know that, don't you?' ‘Yes.' ‘First off and most important, do you have the child? Kyra Devore?' ‘Yes.' ‘Where is she?' ‘I'll be happy to show you.' We walked down the north-wing corridor and stood just outside the bedroom doorway, looking in. The duvet was pulled up to her chin and she was sleeping deeply. The stuffed dog was curled in one hand we could just see its muddy tail poking out of her fist at one end and its nose poking out at the other. We stood there for a long time, neither of us saying anything, watching her sleep in the light of a summer evening. In the woods the trees had stopped falling, but the wind still blew. Around the eaves of Sara Laughs it made a sound like ancient music.