15 January 2027
Friday. Summer, and Lake Street was full of people tonight who had eaten dinner and then some. A group came up my stairs singing, all leaning on each other like a fence in the wind. The grown-ups at the desk said not tonight, and sent them home.
I was sad, but I understand. You have to be able to think in my house. You have to remember things. You have to notice when Margery has moved, and Margery has moved.
The next group came up a quarter of an hour early, exactly as they had been told, and put their telephones away and listened to the grown-ups and were ready the moment the door shut. I liked them very much. Punctual people are so much more fun to frighten.
The singing group are still across the road at midnight, talking to the Beeping Man. He is telling them about me. They are telling him about a kebab.
— Cathy (please come back)
