It had apparently blocked his view of Jessie, because he had no idea of how angry she was… and he was, under ordinary circumstances, very much aware of her turns of mood and temper. He’d gone on laughing until that froth of emotion so filled her that she understood she would have to do something with it or simply explode. So she had doubled up one small fist and had punched her well-loved brother in the mouth when he finally raised his head to look at her. The blow had knocked him over like a bowling pin and he had cried really hard.

Later she had tried to tell herself that he had cried more out of surprise than pain, but she had known, even at twelve, that that wasn’t so. She had hurt him, hurt him plenty. His lower lip had split in one place, his upper lip in two, and she had hurt him plenty. And why? Because he had done something stupid? But he’d only been nine himself-nine that day-and at that age all kids were stupid. No; it hadn’t been his stupidity. It had been her fear-fear that if she didn’t do something with that ugly green froth of anger and embarrassment, it would

(put out the sun)

cause her to explode. The truth, first encountered on that day, was this: there was a well inside her, the water in that well was poisoned, and when he goosed her, William had sent a bucket down there, one which had come up filled with scum and squirming gluck. She had hated him for that, and she supposed it was really her hate which had caused her to strike out. That deep stuff had scared her. Now, all these years later, she was discovering it still did… but it still infuriated her, as well.

You won’t put out the sun, she thought, without the slightest idea of what this meant. Be damned if you will.

“I don’t want to argue the fine points, Gerald. just get the keys to these fucking things and unlock me!”

And then he said something which so astounded her that at first she couldn’t grasp it: “What if I won’t?”