Midori, meanwhile, had crawled over to the other side of the playpen. She had had the brilliant idea to scoot her backside up against the mesh siding of the playpen and prop her legs up, so her legs and torso formed a rough 90 degree angle. Currently she seemed fascinated on how many different permutations of her own fingers she could fit into her mouth. The teenager was enthralled by the strings of saliva formed between her lips and fingers.
Dante wasn’t dead. How could he be dead? If he had died, he would have remembered it. He definitely didn’t feel dead. He was still breathing, seeing, hearing, talking, thinking. He was positive that he had felt his heart pounding when the first Judy in the white blouse and black skirt had put him on the padded table and he found himself paralyzed. Time for a rebuttal.