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"
Did
you
pull
the
stinger
out
?
"
"
Wasps
don
’
t
leave
them
in
.
That
’
s
bees
.
They
have
barbed
stingers
.
Wasp
stingers
are
smooth
.
That
’
s
what
makes
them
so
dangerous
.
They
can
sting
again
and
again
.
"
"
Jack
,
are
you
sure
that
’
s
safe
for
him
to
have
?
"
"
I
followed
the
directions
on
the
bomb
.
The
stuff
is
guaranteed
to
kill
every
single
bug
in
two
hours
’
time
and
then
dissipate
with
no
residue
.
"
"
I
hate
them
,
"
she
said
.
"
What
…
wasps
?
"
"
Anything
that
stings
,
"
she
said
.
Her
hands
went
to
her
elbows
and
cupped
them
,
her
arms
crossed
over
her
breasts
.
"
I
do
too
,
"
he
said
,
and
hugged
her
.
Down
the
hall
,
in
the
bedroom
,
Wendy
could
hear
the
typewriter
Jack
had
carried
up
from
downstairs
burst
into
life
for
thirty
seconds
,
fall
silent
for
a
minute
or
two
,
and
then
rattle
briefly
again
.
It
was
like
listening
to
machinegun
fire
from
an
isolated
pillbox
.
The
sound
was
music
to
her
ears
;
Jack
had
not
been
writing
so
steadily
since
the
second
year
of
their
marriage
,
when
he
wrote
the
story
that
Esquire
had
purchased
.
He
said
he
thought
the
play
would
be
done
by
the
end
of
the
year
,
for
better
or
worse
,
and
he
would
be
moving
on
to
something
new
.
He
said
he
didn
’
t
care
if
The
Little
School
stirred
any
excitement
when
Phyllis
showed
it
around
,
didn
’
t
care
if
it
sank
without
a
trace
,
and
Wendy
believed
that
,
too
.
The
actual
act
of
his
writing
made
her
immensely
hopeful
,
not
because
she
expected
great
things
from
the
play
but
because
her
husband
seemed
to
be
slowly
closing
a
huge
door
on
a
roomful
of
monsters
.
He
had
had
his
shoulder
to
that
door
for
a
long
time
now
,
but
at
last
it
was
swinging
shut
.
Every
key
typed
closed
it
a
little
more
.
