“Is it, is it her check?”

“What does it matter? Well, it is hers, yes.”

Something cracked. It must have been the springs of the bed, for O-90 made a slight motion only. She remained sitting, her hands upon her knees.

“Well, quick.⁠ ⁠…” I roughly pressed her hand. A red spot was left on her wrist (tomorrow it would become purple), where the fluffy, infantile fold.⁠ ⁠… It was the last.⁠ ⁠… I turned the switch, my thoughts went out with the light. Darkness, a spark! and I had jumped over the railing, down.⁠ ⁠…