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shut.
        'She's not dead,' he whispered. 'She's not. She's just fine, and I'm gonna help her.'
        Opening his eyes, he clapped his hands down on top wall and jumped. He shoved himself higher, belly and thighs scraping against the rough blocks. He flung a leg up sideways and hooked the top with his foot. Seconds later, he was standing upright on the wall. Nothing to it! Should've done it months ago! Should've climbed over the wall and enjoyed some close-up views. But he'd never dared. Afraid of being caught. By Mother. Or by Sheila's husband. So he had never done more than peer over its top. At night after Mother had gone to bed. During the day, those occasional times when Mother was away from the house without him. He'd seen a lot, but never enough. Never near enough.
        From now on, there would be no Mother in his way. He could do whatever he pleased. But now it was too late. The quake had seen to that. It just isn't fair, Stanley thought. From his height above the wall, he could see that the houses on both sides of Sheila's place still stood. They had broken windows, some cracks in the walls, and they might've sustained some serious damage beyond Stanley's view. But they hadn't collapsed. Why her place? Nobody even lived in the house to the left. It had been vacant for two months, a FOR SALE sign in the front yard. And the young couple who lived in the house to the right both held full-time jobs. So they probably weren't even home when the quake struck. Nobody home at two out of three. The quake had dropped the only house with a person in it. Not just any person. Sheila. My Sheila.
        Stanley leaped. In midair, he realized he should've lowered himself down from the wall instead of jumping. But it was a bit late for that. His feet pounded the ground. Pain shot up both his legs. He stumbled forward, leaving one moccasin behind, and fell. He landed on his knees, dived from there, and skidded headfirst over the grass. The grass felt thick and soft and very wet. Stanley lay motionless on it for a few seconds, then got slowly to his feet. The front of his pajamas clung to him. Where the pale blue fabric adhered to his skin, it looked nearly transparent. He went back for his moccasin, slipped his foot into it, then headed for the ruin of Sheila's house.
        The sunlight on the concrete patio made him squint. The patio looked fine. Normal. Just the same as always. There was the Weber grill that often sent such wonderful aromas into the evening. There was the picnic table, a flower pot in its center, a long bench on either side. There was the lounger with its faded, green cushion. Four times during the past few weeks, he had gazed over the wall and found Sheila stretched out on this very lounger. She had worn a skimpy white bikini. She'd rubbed her skin with oil, but hadn't been able to reach the middle of her back. Only twice had he seen the daughter come out to sunbathe. Her bikini was orange. Compared to Sheila, she looked scrawny. Skin and bones. Cute, but not in the same league as her mother. As if anybody could be. Last Wednesday, Louise Thayer had gone to a bridge party and Stanley had visited the wall. Peering over the top, he'd spied Sheila sprawled belly down on the lounger. She wore a baseball cap and sunglasses. She read a book. bikini top was untied, leaving her bare and glossy all the way down her back. A small white triangle draped the middle of her rump. A white cord crossed her hip. Except for that cord her side was nothing but sleek skin all the way down from her shoulder to her foot. Stanley had gazed at her, aching. She's got to move sooner or later, he'd thought. She'll get up. And maybe she'll be careless about her top. Maybe she'll lift herself up, and it'll stay down there on the cushion. Maybe she'll even turn over onto her back without it! Yes! She might! She just might! And Stanley had suddenly remembered the binoculars in his bedroom closet. He couldn't take a picture of her,