“Let me help.”“Oh, quit teasing all the time!” I cried out, exasperated.She looked at me in apparently genuine astonishment. “I was talking ...bout helping you to the shore,” she explained patiently. “Like, if you wanted a hand for balance, because your hip is hurting.”I stared at her for a long moment. “Oh, sorry. But you’re always saying crazy shit, so I thought you meant something else.” The defensiveness in my tone disappeared. “I’m okay to walk,” I said, more calmly. I let go of her. “Let me see that thing again.”When I had it, I noted the title page. Nora Meara. Orwell's Homage to Catalonia: A View of the Spanish Civil War. History 11-330. Then, blah, blah, blah, a lot of words written by me.She said, “I never could have written it myself.”I pondered that. “No, Nora, I think you could do it if you just applied yourself a little more.” She seemed surprised I had said that.Some of her previous snippiness came back, “What, do you expect me to turn into a good girl now?”Yes,. More

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