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I knocked. A moment later, Henry opened the door. ‘Hello, Miss Weston. Follow me.’ He was dressed sharply, in suit trousers, a crisp blue shirt, and immaculate black brogues. The warm eyes of the man I had met in the cafe were gone, instead a steely glare. As we reached the end of the corridor, he opened a door into an empty classroom filled with old-fashioned wooden desks, years of graffiti scratched into them. ‘Put your rucksack in the corner and sit on a desk. Now.’ I did as told, my plaid skirt sliding up my legs. My heart lurched as he locked the door and turned to face me, standing about two paces away. ‘Do you know why you are here, Miss Weston?’ ‘Yes’‘Yes WHAT?’ ‘Yes...Sir.’ I stammered. ‘Because I stole, Sir.’ ‘That’s correct, Miss Weston,’ he said coldly, his eyes boring into me. ‘And as a filthy thief, you are going to stay here until I think you have been punished enough. Do you understand?’ ‘Yes, Sir,’ I nodded. Without his eyes leaving me, he slowly rolled up the. Another boat arrives, and Stacy volunteers to get into the front row of that one. "Momma, please don't go," her little daughter begs, but Stacy--wearing a white floral print dress and sandals, her hair tied in a long pony tail which reaches to the base of her neck--kisses her on the forehead and assures her, "Honey, I'll be just behind you. You can see me from where you're sitting, and with the backlog of boats, I won't be too far behind." It's true: there are several boats ahead nearly bumping into one another as they round the corner into the thickening darkness of the ride. Her husband and the kids wave bye-bye to mommy as their boat begins to round the bend. As Stacy waits for her boat to line up, a slightly grungy dude in shorts, sneakers, black t-shirt and jean jacket with shoulder-length dirty blonde hair enters the waiting corridor for the ride. He has that sort-of grunge groupie, wannabe-a-rock-star look to him, and he and Stacy are the only ones there. The guy looks around.
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