Perhaps it was Sandra'sjob, as an art and architecture critic for one of the Londonbroadsheets, which gave him the strength, for in his job he had to putup with a great deal of enmity from those who disagreed with hisopinions.The first time that Ken went to visit, for tea, was just after thestitches had been removed from the blow to his head. Although Ken wastoo discreet to blame his parents, some bitterness inevitably leakedout, and he suspected that Sandra and Sarah had an inkling that the cutwas not entirely accidental. Perhaps because of this, Sandra and Sarahstarted calling Ken their 'adopted daughter', a pet name which brought acontented smile to his lips, even now. They encouraged him to call them"Mum" and "Dad", and it was through their care that Ken gained back someof the self confidence, fun, and love of experimentation that he hadlost. "They saved my life," Ken reflected simply, for after meeting themhe soon abandoned his plans to commit suicide.It was in the spirit of. And that was the crux. How much moretime would they desire if not for the specters of frailty, decay andirrelevance?Cassandra had ruminated on this topic many times before and no doubtwould again. She sipped her morning tea as she gazed out her living roomwindow from the comfort of her leather sofa. It was a drab, overcastday, typical of Tumwater, Washington. A perfect day for her to go on awalk if she so desired. What did she desire? Cassie hadn't decided yet.The slim, raven-haired beauty placed her mug on a coaster atop thecoffee table. She took up her laptop, logged into her broker and checkedher stocks. The market was up. She was wealthier today than she had beenyesterday. And tomorrow she would likely be wealthier than she wastoday. Boring. Unworthy of her attention.Cassie checked her news feeds. There was the usual political squabbling.A few minor conflicts among the various factions of the mundane. Theoutbreak of some new disease which would never threaten her. Nothing ofgreat.
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