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Summary
Those in the hills always seem to yearn for the flat expanses and salty air.
On the account of the doll: it sits at the edge of the bedding, slightly stained by Wayne's touch. You'd figured if you one-up it on the account of creepiness, it might leave you alone, or play dead itself. You don't have the time to have tea parties with it in the morning, but you do pick it up sometimes and swirl across the room absentmindedly, mimicking dance moves it knows but you don't remember.
Or, them and Wayne have a little chat after the party on Saturday. Things are coming to their natural end.
Series
- Part 2 of the talent of being stuck in small towns
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