"Or maybe you should stop using the computer to write everything," her dad said, going to hang up the towel. "Your handwriting's going to pot."

"So's yours, sweetheart."

"I know. That's how I can tell what's happening to yours." Her father opened the refrigerator, gazed inside, and said, "Beer."

"Oh, now wait a minute. You said "

"I lost ten pounds last month. The diet's working. After a hard day in the shop, can't I even have a cold beer  Just one "

Nita put her head down over her notebook and concentrated on not snickering.

"We'll discuss that later. Oh, by the way, new sneakers for you," her mother said, giving her father a severe look, "before your old ones get up and

start running around by themselves, without either of our daughters being involved."

"Oh, come on, Betty, they're not that bad!"

"You put your head in the closet, take a sniff, and tell me that again... assuming you make it out of there alive... If you can even tell anymore. I

think all those flowers you work with are killing your sense of smell "

"You don't complain about them when I bring home roses."

"It counts for more when somebody brings roses home if he's not also the florist!"

Nita's dad laughed and started to sing in off-key imitation of Neil Diamond, "Youuu don't bring me floooooowerrrs...," as he headed for the back

bedroom.

Nita's mom raised her eyebrows. "Harold Edward Callahan," she said as she turned her attention back to her list making, "you are potentially shortening

your lifespan..."

The only answer was louder singing, in a key that her father favored but few other human beings could have recognized. Nita hid her smile until her