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The people walking along the sidewalk were staring at her as if they had seen a ship in the desert. Feeling their unhealthy interest, she tried to move faster. I stepped up behind her, fearing that she may trip. As she reached the entrance, she stopped and looked back over her shoulder. “Are you coming with me?” she asked. There was something that puzzled me. She looked confused and slightly scared, which wasn’t typical of her. Her eyes were boring into mine, as if she was trying to read my thoughts. “Of course, if you don’t mind my company…my dear Miss.” “You are so kind to me…sir,” she said and playfully stuck out her tongue at me. “Oh my God! What have they done to you, my poor child?” an old woman cried out, startling us. I quickly recognized her as Susan, one of Jill’s neighbors. She was staring at the cast with undisguised curiosity, her eyes twinkling merrily. “I broke my leg,” Jill answered dryly. “I warned you that you would eventually hurt yourself riding that. Daytime TV was trash, of course. He took the remote and turned on the VCR; maybe someone had left a tape in it that was worth watching, although the odds were that it was more of Henry's cartoons.It wasn't cartoons; it was the tape that Kirsten had made on the finish line at Sunday. He had already seen it seventeen times at least, but he watched the climactic moments once again: the teams racing across the ice, pounding along side by side, Tiffany so tiny behind the drive bow of the sled, but so intense and dedicated. Once again, he heard Kirsten's yell of "Come on, Tiffany," shouted right into the videocamera's microphone, and once again he followed the teams racing down the chute as Kirsten had panned to follow them across the finish line. He and Mark had seen the tape the first time as they sat shivering in the hot tub an hour after it happened, and though they'd watched this segment several times, they couldn't fault Ryan Clark's judgement of the viewfinder playback that Ringo.
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