You may now proceed to today’s post:
Sometimes not only the The Grownups Wanted Us Dead. On occasion we were quite content to kill each other.
I settled into bed wearing my customary night gown — one of my dad’s old t-shirts — and opened my psych book for a little studying. Gram was still in the living-room. She only had a few pages left of her novel, and wanted to finish it. We heard thunder on the stairs. I smirked, certain Rumble had found his P.B. & J. sandwich. I wasn’t worried. There was no way Gram would let him into my bedroom. I was safe . . . .