Ann turned on her heel and walked quickly up the stairs, leaving the old woman open-mouthed in the hallway below. She unlocked the door to her apartment, and went inside, closing it behind her. Goddamned old gossip, she thought to herself, and moved to her small, meagerly supplied bar. She poured herself a drink, and took a long swallow, letting it wash the tension out of her with its soothing warmth.

She turned to the small air conditioner that made life just bearable during the summer, switched it on, and moved across the room to the hallway leading to the kitchen. She walked slowly along the hall, stopped in front of the second door, opened it quietly, and stood leaning against the door jamb, looking into the room sadly.

But Mrs. Pinchley is right, Ann admitted to herself, I am sick with worry. If Lani would only write, and tell me what's happening…

The upset young mother stood looking into her daughter's room for a few moments, at the high school pennants and the stuffed animals spread across the brightly colored bedspread, and then closed the door softly. She made her way through the hall to the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and took out some ice to cool her drink. Then she sat slowly at the kitchen table, lowered her face into her hands, and began, very quietly to cry.

It had all started with her latest move to California, two years before. Lani had been in her last year of high school, and had begun to show signs of restlessness, of dissatisfaction, not with her mother, but with things in general. She had begun running with a strange crowd, long-haired, strangely clothed, and rebellious. Ann had been careful not to criticize, knowing that her opposition would only serve to make her daughter more committed to the group of people she had chosen as friends. Throughout that year, Lani's relationship with her mother had remained the same understanding, warm bond that it had always been, and there had been no ruptures in their deep-seated love for one another.