The plain delight on Mary’s face was Gwen’s payoff. There — it had been worth going through the whole story. You mean you have this whole fucking place to yourself? And — You’re not going to tell your mom, are you? Are you fucking kidding me? Mary was looking around with new eyes, taking in every scrap of furniture, every mote of dust, the timeless weight of the curtains, the sudden sharp charge of freedom in the vast space beneath the high ceilings. She strode over to the couch, touched the antique afghan absently, lovingly. She took a couple of steps toward the windows, then stopped and turned back around, vibrating in place. The implications were beginning to dawn on her. She stared at Gwen with an all-consuming sense of purpose — and a devilish expectancy. Can I sleep over? Gwen tried to parse the simple phrase. The sweetness of it, the comical innocence of it, coming from the dark-lined lips of this girl whose moody superiority she had come to accept as an inalterable fact of existence — it was disorienting. And it made swirly sensations in her gut. Well, yeah, but — Fan fucking tastic. Let’s go tell my mom. I mean, not *tell* her about your parents abandoning you obviously, I mean just about the sleepover. It’ll be like some cheesy movie. We can do *homework.* Yes. Homework. People did that, didn’t they? Why was it that this mundane transgression they were about to attempt seemed so much more titillating and preposterous than the long-term deviance of the last few weeks of Gwen’s life? ## No. Fucking. Way. The delight, plain on Mary’s face, was like a payoff to Gwen. There. It had been worth going through the whole story. You mean you have this whole fucking place to yourself? And— You’re not going to tell your mom, are you? Are you fucking kidding me? Mary was looking around with new eyes, taking in every scrappy piece of furniture, every mote of dust as if it all went together to form the most technologically advanced playground in all of awesomeness. Then she stopped, frozen like a kid who’s so excited she has to go to the bathroom. Can I sleep over? Gwen tried to parse the simple phrase. The sweetness of it, the comical innocence of it, coming from the dark-lined lips of this girl whose moody superiority she had come to see as a landmark of some sort—it was disorienting. And it made swirly sensations in her gut. Well, yeah, but— Fan fucking tastic. Let’s go tell my mom. I mean, not *tell* her, I mean, just about the sleepover. It’ll be like some cheesy movie. We can do *homework.* Yes. Homework. People did that, didn’t they? Why was it that this mundane transgression they were about to attempt seemed so much more titillating and impossible than the long-term deviance of the last few weeks of Gwen’s life?