Lightning

fingerprint.
    He opened the refrigerator, not sure what he expected to find there. Perhaps an indication of Willy Sheener's abnormal psychology; a former victim of his molestations, murdered and frozen to preserve the memories of twisted passion? Nothing that dramatic. However, the man's fetish for neatness was obvious: All the food was stored in matching Tupperware containers.
    Otherwise, the only thing odd about the contents of both the refrigerator and cupboards was the preponderance of sweets: ice cream, cookies, cakes, candies, pies, doughnuts, even animal crackers. There were a great many novelty foods, too, like Spaghetti-Os and cans of vegetable soup in which the noodles were shaped like popular cartoon characters. Sheener's larder looked as if it had been stocked by a child with a checkbook but no adult supervision.
    Stefan moved deeper into the house.
5
    The confrontation over the shredded books was sufficient to drain what little spirit Tammy possessed. She said no more about Sheener and seemed no longer to harbor any animosity toward Laura. Retreating further into herself day by day, she averted her eyes from everyone, hung her head lower; her voice grew softer.
    Laura wasn't sure which was less tolerable—the constant threat posed by the White Eel or watching Tammy's already wispy personality fading further as she slid toward a state hardly more active than catatonia. But on Thursday, August 31, those two burdens were lifted unexpectedly from Laura's shoulders when she learned that she would be transferred to a foster home in Costa Mesa the following day, Friday.
    However, she regretted leaving the Ackersons. Though she'd known them only a few weeks, friendships forged in extremity solidified faster and felt more enduring than those made in more ordinary times.
    That night, as the three of them sat on the floor of their room, Thelma said, "Shane, if you wind up with a good family, a happy home, just settle down snug and
enjoy
. If you're in a good place, forget us, make new friends, get on with your life.
But
the legendary Ackerson sisters—Ruth and moi—have been through the foster-family mill, three bad ones, so let me assure you that if you wind up in a
rotten
place, you don't have to stay there."
    Ruth said, "Just weep a lot and let everyone know how unhappy you are. If you can't weep, pretend to."
    "Sulk," Thelma advised. "Be clumsy. Accidentally break a dish each time you've got to wash them. Make a nuisance of yourself."
    Laura was surprised. "You did all that to get back into Mcllroy?"
    "That and more," Ruth said.
    "But didn't you feel terrible—breaking their things?"
    "It was harder for Ruth than me," Thelma said. "I've got the devil in me, while Ruth is the reincarnation of an obscure, treacly, fourteenth-century nun whose name we've not yet ascertained."

    Within one day Laura knew she did not want to remain in the care of the Teagel family, but she tried to make it work because at first she thought their company was preferable to returning to Mcllroy.
    Real life was just a misty backdrop to Flora Teagel, for whom only crossword puzzles were of interest. She spent days and evenings at the table in her yellow kitchen, wrapped in a cardigan regardless of the weather, working through books of crossword puzzles one after another with a dedication both astonishing and idiotic.
    She usually spoke to Laura only to give her lists of chores and to seek help with knotty crossword clues. As Laura stood at the sink, washing dishes, Flora might say, "What's a seven-letter word for cat?"
    Laura's answer was always the same: "I don't know."
    " 'I don't know, I don't know, I don't know,' " Mrs. Teagel mocked. "You don't seem to know anything, girl. Aren't you paying attention in school? Don't you care about language, about words?"
    Laura, of course, was
fascinated
with words. To her, words were things of beauty, each like a magical powder or potion that could be combined with other words to create powerful spells. But to Flora Teagel, words were game chips needed to fill blank puzzle squares, annoyingly elusive clusters of letters that frustrated her.
    Flora's husband, Mike, was a squat, baby-faced truck driver. He spent evenings in an armchair, poring over the
National Enquirer
and its clones, absorbing useless facts from dubious stories about alien contact and devil-worshiping movie stars. His taste for what he called "exotic news" would have been harmless if he'd been as self-absorbed as his wife, but