Pitcher, Pitcher, Dipped to Hell

Killer-Kate and Luke Lackland: 710 words.  Fiery Younger Sister makes a terrible, preternaturally inspiring speech to rally a mass of strawberry blancmange that somebody left out in the rain.  This is half too funny to write, and half too painful.  Kate's hope cracks like an old pitcher banged once too often against the stones of the shallow stream-bed.  But I haven't got low enough yet to make Bonecold Refugee speak.  I need to hear her words, and I'm growing doubtful of them.  She isn't Katy's or anybody's in her world, and sometimes she isn't exactly mine, either.

I'm going to bed.  I can't dip any more water out tonight.