( Picture of health — that seems to please him, to spark his smile deep and firmly carved. There's still some flesh on the apple for a slow and modest chewing, and he takes his time with it, as if, now that he's imprisoned an adult as his captive audience, he cannot miss the opportunity to flaunt.

Children, like tyrants, enjoy attention. )

I didn't come from up. ( This, as if survival is a feat, not an accident. ) Came from over the sea. Mom and dad didn't... ( Thin between his teeth, his lower lip's flushing. He looks away. ) ...Ma'am's nice.

( Makes big, soft cookies and spares a cot by the fireplace, come winter. And now, he's shrugging. )

Some others say they came from up. When the quarrels happened. Ma'am Mariol says, don't quarrel, but they quarreled up.