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Once a dusty raisin was lying underneath the little white Formica table. And I danced with the raisin. Then I ate it. And then there was a distance deep within me.

We no longer felt the savage hunger, and the orach still grew silver-green. Soon it would turn woody and flaming red. But because we knew what hunger was, we bought fatty foods at the market and wolfed them down without restraint. We fattened up our old homesickness; it soaked up the hasty new meat. (...)

Then Mother stood up and went into the house. And I sat down on Aunt Luia in the exact spot where she had been sitting. The wood was warm. The black wind quivered in the fruit garden.

I wondered if she knew about the swan on the oval sign at the Neptune Baths. I didn't ask her, but I did say: You know why a swan sounds hoarse when it sings because its throat is always hungry.

By then, her hands were swarming black again. Before she licked off the ants, she asked: When is the war over.
I said: The war's been over for two years. Come, let's go back to the camp.
She said: Can't you see I don't have any time now.

And what sets the kitten apart from the mice: it was all about intent and compassion with the mice. With the kitten, it was resentment: wanting to pet and winding up bitten. That's one thing. The other is compulsion. Once you start to squeeze, there's no going back.

In the evening, in the shuffle of footsteps on the way home, I often thought: There's less and less cement; it can disappear all by itself. I'm made of cement, too, and there's less and less of me. So why can't I disappear.

The locomotive let out a dull whistle. The deepest UUUUH I ever heard. Everyone pushed to get to the door. We climbed in and rode on.
I would have recognized the man even without his badge. But I never saw him in the camp.