Peeper’s eyelid is “swelled up.” That’s what she says. Peeper says that.
Peeper pulls her lower lids down using her cheeks. Turtle-backed, red half-moons eclipse her face. She looks murdered. Peeper does.
Peeper! I yell her. Peeper! Then I quiet, peeper… peeper…
My head makes a capital M in front of her face three times; the first time slow, the second time, fast. The third time is lifting a wrench filled with hammers but made into time. The third time is extra-careful. It is studious.
She huddles. She waits for me to finish. Peeper does.
I see nothing.
And I don’t.