(no subject)
The couch in this living room is beat-up, worn down at the edges; it's like dorm room furniture, Rebecca thinks occasionally, from the wry distance of thirty-seven and the memory of her own tidy apartment. But this is the Shelter, and what matters is that the couch is there and it's comfortable, and it holds together.
Rebecca is desultorily reading a battered paperback of Little House On The Prairie -- somebody left it on the table here, and she's read and reread most of her own stash. She remembers adoring this book as a child, but she's finding the real thing suffers somewhat by comparison.
Might end up with some more ideas for survival tricks, though. You never know.
Rebecca is desultorily reading a battered paperback of Little House On The Prairie -- somebody left it on the table here, and she's read and reread most of her own stash. She remembers adoring this book as a child, but she's finding the real thing suffers somewhat by comparison.
Might end up with some more ideas for survival tricks, though. You never know.