image. She assayed
herself with complete impersonality.

She shouldn't look as good as she did--not after the beating she'd
taken. Not after the long nights and the days and the years, even though
the years did not add up to very many.

I could be someone's wife, she thought, with wry humor. I could be
sending kids to school and going out to argue with the grocer about the
tomatoes being too soft. I don't look bad at all.

She raised her eyes until they were staring into their own images in the
glass and she spoke aloud in a low, wondering voice. She said, "Who the
hell am I, anyway? Who am I? A body named Linda--that's who I am.
No--that's _what_ I am. A body's not a _who_--it's a _what_. One hundred
and fourteen pounds of well-built blond body called Linda--model
1931--no fender dents--nice paint job. Come in and drive me away. Price
tag--"

She bit into the lower lip she'd just finished reddening and turned
quickly to walk to the bed and wriggle into her dress--a gray and green
cotton--the only one she had. She picked up her bag and went to the
door. There she stopped to turn and thumb her nose at the three sleeping
pills in the bottle before she went out and closed the door after
herself.

The desk clerk was away from the cubbyhole from which he presided over
the lobby, and there were no loungers to undress her as she walked
toward the door.

Nor was there anyone out in the street. The girl looked north and south.
No cars in sight either. No buses waddling up to the curb to spew out
passengers.

The girl went five doors north and tried to enter a place called Tim's
Hamburger House. As the lock held and the door refused to open, she saw
that there were no lights on inside--no one behind the counter. The
place was closed.

She walked on down the street followed only by the lonesome sound of her
own clicking heels. All the stores were closed. All the lights were out.

_All the people were gone._

* * * * *

He was a huge man, and the place of concealment of the Chicago Avenue
police station was very small--merely an indentation low in the cement
wall behind two steam pipes. The big man had lain in this niche for
forty-eight hours. He had slugged a man over the turn of a card in a
poolroom pinochle game, had been arrested in due course, and was
awaiting the disposal of his case.

He was sorry he had slugged the man. He had not had any deep hatred for
him, but rather a rage