He lowered his rifle. “My name is Williams. I have a friend downstairs I’d like you to meet—his name is Ank.” He watched the corpse, listening, but there was no movement and no response. “Do you have a name?”
The wind moaned forlornly and the blinds rattled again. At last she said, “Luna. Because my hair is white.”
“Luna ...” He smiled in spite of himself—in spite of the situation. “Because your hair is white.” He took a tentative step forward and paused. “May I see it? I’ve never seen a little girl with white hair.”
There was a brief silence. “You promise you won’t take my radio?”
“Promise and hope to die,” he said, and gently moved the rest of the way to her.
The corpse shifted slightly and the filthy white tennis shoe reappeared. Then she began pushing outward and upward and he qui
