Let me out, let me out, let meout.I finger the handle of my knife as I slice the crusts off her littlesandwich (PB&J, her favorite!) before I bring it...down. She hates crusts. Ithink about just getting it over with and slitting my jugular, right now.I could do it. She would die, of course, without me to feed her - thenourishment of food, yes, but also hope. Every time I descend the steps,she thinks, maybe I will let her go now. Maybe this is the time I fumblemy key, or she can pickpocket my. I was mortified that I'd broken up the party, they obviously couldn'tcarry on eating with the smell of my sick in the room, so they all wentout to have their meals in a restaurant while I cleaned up. Cook wasn'tvery pleased with me either but suggested that I use the main course thenext day for lunch service. She showed me what to do to finish cookingit.June 21I'm afraid that lunch didn't go too well. Cook apparently told me topre-heat the oven then cook the fish for twenty minutes at two. More

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