Its two in the morning. The night is not passing quickly enough for Roo, who is asleep on that side of the dinette in the camper. I am driving her insane by making godawful noises on a mandolin. It's a good thing she doesn't have a shotgun. She might do something rash. Instead, she has tolerated being ignored by her good-for-nothing Daddy while he stares at a screen and taps away at that metal box, the one where cats sometimes appear. Does it really take that much tapping, hours and hours of it every day, to lure the occasional cat onscreen? Why? Where do they live? Do they like the tapping? Is that what makes them look out of the box's window? They seem to come so rarely, no matter how much he taps. Tonight, like most nights, no cats have come. Not one.
Her wait for the next morning — when she can start harassing that otherwise useless Daddy of hers to take her somewhere so she can kill someone, anyone, at this point a teaspoon-size mouse will do, or even one of those uncatchable tadpoles — is dragging by at the speed of the death of the universe. In the meantime, she has a suggestion. A way to improve things, to help her overlook the shortcomings of her unkind Daddy and that round noise box she would like to make him watch her chew to splinters and bury deep in a bottomless ravine she converted to a graveyard in Idaho. A slice of salami might turn the trick. Or a cookie. She gives me this look until the message is clear.
It doesn't take long. And then we are back to waiting for the new day to dawn.