The Caterpillars Question

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They had told Jack they thought it was psychosomatic. She could talk if she wanted to, and might even recover the sight of one eye. But it had taken seven years to obtain the grant from the foundation, and now she was thirteen.

He glanced at her, sitting tight and stiff in the passenger bucket. Her dark hair was cut so short it was boyish, but the gentle bulges in the heavy man's shirt she wore belied any boyhood or childhood. One hand toyed indifferently with the buckle of the seat belt, and under her cotton skirt the shiny length of a metal brace paralleled her left leg. Her sharp chin pointed forward, but of course she was not watching anything.

The horn of the car behind him blared as the light changed Jack shifted and edged out, waiting for the string of late left-turners to clear. He wasn't even certain which city this was, the hours of silent driving had grown monotonous.

"Are you ready to stop, Tappy?" But she did not answer or make any sign. He knew she heard and understood— but he was still a stranger, and she was afraid. Had they even bothered to tell her where she was going, or why?

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