A thundering boom, the house went dark, and June pulled her knees to her chest and clutched her robe. She thought of the glass of chocolate milk on the table that day, the swirl of cocoa and fresh, toothy-yellow milk, that offering, that swallow of tangy and bitter and sweet, that moment of waiting to be told her father was gone forever. Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral. Her skin felt bristly, as if infested with mites, and she scratched her arms and legs and backed up on the sofa, turned sideways and dug her heels into the cushions. And now she held her fists to her eyes and screamed to drown out the sounds inside her head, to drive away the images that followed.