Plastered to crusted linoleum, smelling chemical Pine, Dorothy Jane clutches a bag of frozen peas to her elbow. A damp cigarette hangs out the corner of her mouth. She bites off the filter, spits it on the floor. Renee wobbles over, picks it up, almost puts it in her mouth. Dorothy Jane whacks her, it flings from her hand. The Constellation sits in the corner soiled. There are two more out back with broken belts.
