clearly hear the whispered coaching, as Stefan had heard so long ago, ⑨⑨
just a beat before her words.
“If all you’re interested in is playing games, Matthew Honeycutt,
I’ll go find someone else to talk to.”
He could practically hear her flounce away.
But he felt like celebrating. He allowed himself a whole graham
cracker and half a cup of Mrs. Flowers’s homemade apple juice. They
never knew when they might be locked in here for good, with only the
supplies they had, so whenever Matt went out of the bunker he brought
back as many things as he could find that might be useful. A barbeque
lighter and hairspray equaled a flame thrower. Jar after jar of Mrs.
Flowers’s delicious preserves. Lapis rings in case the worst happened
and they ended up with pointy teeth.
Mrs. Flowers turned in her sleep on the couch. “Who was that,
Matt dear?” she asked.
“Nobody at all, Mrs. Flowers. You just go back to sleep.”
“I see,” Mrs. Flowers said in her sweet-old-lady voice. “Well, if
nobody at all comes back you might ask her her own mother’s first
name.”
“I see,” Matt said in his best imitation of her voice and then they
both laughed. But underneath his laughter there was a lump in his throat.
He had know