As she walked around the curve in the road, she slowed, dragging her feet through the gravel and dust.

She could handle it, she thought, the note weighting down her backpack.   How would they react?

She knew if she could just explain first, they would understand why she had to do it.   She HAD to do it; they must realize that.

As she neared the house, she could smell the garlicy sauce, she would make the spaghetti to go with the sauce, she and Grama did their best talking in the kitchen, it was going to be OK after all.

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I hear the shuffle of steps below but can’t make out the quiet conversation. It is too late or maybe too early for visitors.
I slip out my window and look over the porch rail, but it is too dark with the streetlights shot out in the alley.
I’m not supposed to be out on the porch or have my window open at night, but it was hot and stuffy, my fan not working.
A crash and some shouts, then unnerving quiet.
I slip back inside.
As the sun comes up, I see the results of an ignored final notice.

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