"I won't go back, I won't!"

"Well," said the cop, "I think we had better discuss this in the back room young lady."

Almost roughly, he took her by the arm, the bartender raised the section of the bar and they all went through, then down a corridor smelling of stale beer, to a small room with beer kegs along one wall, a stove and a table and chairs.

It was dark, dark as her room at the school, and only a cobweb-covered window let in any light at all from high on one wall. The bartender switched the light on and a bare bulb swung from the cord as he let it go.

"Well now, young lady," said the cop, sitting down slowly in one of the chairs. "What's your name?"

"Monique," she said, standing in fear, her arms crossed in front of her body, holding desperately onto the bag with her few possessions in it.

"Well now," the cop said, easing back in the chair and staring openly at her. "You can call me Tom, and this is Hank, the owner of the bar where you just broke the law."

Monique broke into fresh tears. "Please don't send me back, please! I'll do anything, anything if you don't send me back. And I promise I won't come in here again."

She sobbed louder, hoping that would make them sorry for her.

"Well now," said the cop, leaning his chair back. "I think we can find another way to solve this problem."

"Oh yes, oh yes, anything," said Monique, unwittingly sealing her fate.

"I want to make it really clear to you that you don't drink in bars," said the cop, a note of menace in his voice.

Monique just stood and sniffled. She couldn't understand exactly what he was getting at, but, having gone through reform school, she was sure it was going to be something nasty.

"We have our own way of punishing little girls who break the law," said the cop, swinging his chair back upright and getting up. "It's your choice little girl – that, or down to the precinct."