Abby clutched her brother during the carnage, clinging to him as if her life depended on it. And Ken loved the feel of her hard, round head under his chin, the tangy smell of salt, shampoo, and wet wood. He loved her so much, he’d like to squeeze her to death. Occasionally, they sat on the denim beanbag in front of Charon’s cage, observing the action as if at a movie; but more often, they watched from Ken’s twin bed, where his arm would often fall asleep under his sister’s weight.
