She was shocked. Her target was a fifty-four year old man who lived with his mother, an obese neighborhood woman, a widow named Dawn Plote. "To shoot you would be to lose the reward. They were now both in a state of unprecedented physical fitness. The little streaks upon the germinating area of an egg, the nervous movements of an impatient horse, the trick of a calculating boy, the senses of a fish, the fungus at the root of a garden flower, and the slime upon a sea-wet rock—ten thousand such things bear their witness and are illuminated. "Red apples and snow!" she sent back at him, her face suddenly transfixed by some inner glory.
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