By the time they left the cafe, Roanne felt cheery almost. She'd told a story that kept her skirts clean, and the coffee, the warmth of the place, Michelle's trust and faith, and the tick-tick of time--all these helped smooth out the tremors.
Roanne, you could say, had survived an assault that threatened to spring all the demons. As she and Michelle walked down toward the second tier shops though, sharp eyes might have noticed the steeliness now in the set of her jaw, the hard way she looked straight ahead, a certain coiled tension about her.
She'd managed to shove those demons back in their cells. But the effort brought with it this realization: she had to stay on alert.