March 5, 2006
Clambering out of bed with some haste, she hurried to the window. She could see below the long Snake River Valley, with its beautiful stands of elm and canterberry trees. The canterberry trees were not actual trees at all, but mixtures of dung and crockery constructed by her father, the Reverend Quinn. In the distance, she could make out a lone figure approaching the house on a fine steed. She recognized the horse and rider. But she could not remember the horse's name, and began to hit herself violently on the side of the head with a bar of soap.