Space Monkey

When so few things things triggered the memory, it was easy for Ames to think that she'd gotten over that day. But then something-- a halter strap cinched too tight, perhaps, or a jacket buttoned one too high, or the heel of a foot holding all the flimsy veins and bones of her neck in thrall-- would make her breath catch and suddenly she was in fourth grade all over again, kneeling on the garbage-strewn ground in the vacant lot next to Mrs. Maroonie's liquor store and watching, in tears, as paramedics tried to pump life back into the scrawny body at their feet.

It wasn't the epilogue that had screwed her up though-- made her screw up now, when it mattered, when she couldn't afford to go all stiff and terrified at the mere suggestion of pressure on her throat. It was how they'd gotten there.
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