Thousand: Six Hundred Twenty-Four

have been cut and there’s no communication between mind and face. The only indication that something has changed is the lack of change. The grip on the girl’s jacket has pulled her to her toes. The grip does not loosen. She tries to lower her heels but the arm holding her up remains rigidly at that height. The mouth is open, if a bit less. No more drool has slopped out. “My name is Lou,” the girl says, softly this time but firmly, recognizing that this statement has found a place inside the troubled creature, has surprised it, perhaps, and