“Get out,” she repeats, “Or I’ll let him out again.”
“Let who out?” Lye asks.
She sucks her lips into her mouth and stares into a corner. He steps closer, pulls the glasses out of his pocket, and silently holds them to her.
She snatches them, cleans them on the hem of her t-shirt, and slips them, crooked, up the bridge of her birdlike nose. She blinks at him and asks “Who are you?” without preamble or introduction. There is intelligence in her eyes and an ambition that makes Lye smile.
“Lyman Frank Baum.”
“New Orleans?” she guesses.