By MARJORIE HARNESS GOODWIN
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The doctor gave you a shot, Nialla. ” A hand stroked my cheek gently, and I rubbed against it, the way Dice rubs against legs. ” As I woke up, I was almost instantly conscious of being stiff. What on earth could I have been doing? My side felt as if it were puckered from armpit to waist. My shoulders smarted in a dozen places. And when I yawned, my face hurt with stiff painful patches. I opened my eyes on a darkened room. Then my fingers touched the singed stubbly hair around my face, and I couldn’t help crying out.
Then my face was pressed against a soft silk shirt. With exceeding care an arm encircled my shoulders, missing the sores. My singed hair was smoothed back, and I tried to shake his hand off, but I could only cry helplessly. “That’s good, just cry, honey. It’s reaction. You need to get it out of your system. And stop worrying about your goddamn hair. It can get trimmed in one of those feathery cuts as soon as you can sit up . . hey! Why, Nialla Dunn, you lousy fink. ” That made me weep harder and struggle to get free.
The tires bumped over one huge rafter. At the cross of the T, I looked right. Orfeo was rearing in his stall, striking futilely at the bars, his gallant head and neck outlined against the fiery debris crashing down around him. I drove through the back door. “The blanket, the blanket,” I told myself, fumbling for it, grasping it, falling out of the car, slipping on the muddy ground. Someone came tearing around the barn, shouting at me. I ran for the door, jumping somehow over the burning timbers and bales.
Building power asymmetries in girls’ interaction by MARJORIE HARNESS GOODWIN