The Devil's Cauldron
“What a funny name. “Angela,” he whispered. “That’s how they say it in English.”
She was a teenager with shiny black hair and a round, smooth face that looked peaceful as she slept beneath the soft glow of a nightlight. Looking at her, you wouldn’t know she was mentally handicapped like Eric, plus she had to use a wheelchair. Someone said she had spinal beef . . . .something like that. Beefeater? Spinal beefeater?
“That doesn’t make any sense,” he whispered.
Then he shut his mouth and froze. Two voices spoke rapidly in the hallway outside. Eric was behind the door and could pick out their words.
“I don’t know where he went,” Benjamin said. He sounded funny and gurgly. “I didn’t see.”
“Well he didn’t go back my way or I would have seen him.”
“Forget about him. He’s a resident.”
“He’s got Meggie, you moron.
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