She could see through the window.
Through the window she could see a path, a path that led - so far. Did she have to go?
The wrinkles on the man's face moved as he put the end of a carrot into his mouth. She watched him.
He bit the end off the carrot.
She watched him.
He chewed it.
He swallowed it.
She watched him.
There were words in her mouth, now between her teeth, now back in her mind. She would say, "Papa, . . ."
The wrinkles on the man's face moved as he opened his mouth to speak.
He spoke.
The words were addressed to the woman his own age. Her head was bent over the plate in front of her. She did not answer.
Then she answered.
Her daughter raised again her head to the window. She said nothing.
The father replied to the mother and spoke no more. The mother spoke again but was not answered. The daughter again raised her head to the window.
The window was a square. One could see through it. A long way one could see through it.
"It is a long way," she thought.
Words formed. She would say, "Papa, . . ."
She raised her head again to the window. The wrinkles on the old man's face did not move, like cracks and folds in a rock, petrified, unmoving.
Then they moved. A fork with its prongs through a single bean approached his mouth and entered. Again his daughter raised her head to the window. She would say, "Papa, . . ."
"Mama, . . ." she said.
"Yes, my daughter," she said.
"Mama, it's my turn to . . . to . . . to . . ."
"No."
"To . . . to . . . to . . ."
"You mean . . .? No, you don't mean . . .?"
"Yes. I do."
Her head dropped.
The wrinkles on his face fell into shadow as he lowered his head. Then he raised it, bringing them into the light again.
He said, "I knew it wouldn't last. I knew it would happen some time. It's better to get it over with, my daughter."
"You won't cry, Mama?" she said.
"No dear," said her mother, crying.
"When?" said her father.
"Tomorrow," she said.
"Tomorrow!" he said.
"Tomorrow?" she said.
"Tomorrow," she said.
Tomorrow.
The fork lifted to his mouth a single bean, which he swallowed. His daughter raised her head to the window again. It was a transparent sheet of glass, but it was a little dirty in the left-hand top corner.
"Tomorrow," he said.
Night came. Morning came.
It was the next day, the tomorrow of the day before.
A thin block of wood filled up a gap in the wall. It was a door. It opened. One person came out. Two people stood there in the doorway.
"Goodbye," he said.
"Goodbye," her mother said.
"Goodbye," they said.
"Goodbye," she said.
She was going.
"Don't forget the old man," they said.
"No," she replied.
"And the triangle," they said.
"Yes, the triangle," she replied.
"We'll see you again," they said.
"Yes," she said. "Perhaps," she thought.
She began to walk. Her parents stood in the doorway. It was a rectangular hole in the wall which was usually blocked by the slab attached to it by its hinges.
She began to walk along the path.
In the distance the big grey building stood out against the sky.