Dear little Carrie. She was so headstrong. Of course, Sherry could easily understand her sister's reluctance to indulge their father's strange little quirks, but he was so weary from his work these days, and he had been spending so much time down there. It seemed a simple thing to ease his burden, however slightly. True, he did get a little rough at times, but that was only when he took too much of the drug. Usually he was docile as a lamb, putty in her hands.

He seldom took them both at once anymore. Probably a general lessening of his stamina.

But he could still be a wild man when the feeling grabbed him.

For years, they had been his only release. They had served his needs, they had been his… his women. Sherry was old enough to understand. She had been six when their mother left. That was after the bad time, the time of reporters and newspaper articles and police and investigations and inquiries and an entire collage of images and recollections that she simply filed away in her mind as BEFORE. Now, it was AFTER, and had been for years. Almost as long as she could remember, and certainly longer than Carrie could remember.

He had taken them away. He had run, taking them with him, into hiding. The years had been hard, awkward, at times dangerous, but he had managed to keep them alive and safe and clothed and fed, and now they had this beautiful house in the wilderness that she had grown so to love. It seemed at times that there could be nothing to interfere with the idyllic life their father had carved out for them. Nothing, except that unexplained stubborn streak in Carrie. Sherry had noticed it long ago, though she doubted her father was aware of it yet.

But Carrie was becoming restless. She was becoming dissatisfied. She was starting to wonder about the rest of the world. She was asking questions.

"How do other people eat, Daddy? Do they grow all their food like we do?"