Stiff walked into Zoie’s temporary room, carefully opening and closing the door silently.  She then glanced over her shoulder, pertaining the fact that no one was following.  “Zoie?”  A rustle of covers confirmed her location.  Stiff walked uncomfortably towards the bed, and pulled up a chair.  “Zoie, I need to talk to you.”

“What the hell you do you want from me?” Zoie’s voice barely carried out from under the covers, but was clearly shaking.

“I’m really sorry about yesterday… I didn’t mean any of it… it was tactless and senseless… you know how work can wound people u”—

“Cut the crap and tell me what you want so you can leave!”

“Zoie, it’s a little hard to talk to you like this…” 

There was a swish of noise and then Zoie’s face appeared; red, teary, and grotesque.  “Is that better? Or do you want me to dance the conga as well?” yelled Zoie.

In spite of herself, Stiff cracked a smile, a fatal error.

“What’s so funny, huh?  You telling me you don’t give a damn about me?  You telling me you couldn’t find him? You merely treat me like I’m no one, when I started to regard you as a friend, even as a parent!”  With a howl of rage, Zoie hopped out of her bed, yanked a lamp out of its electric cord, and hurled it at Stiff, who reflexively caught it.  Outraged, Zoie raced around the bed and launched herself at Stiff, who had stood up.  The weight of the teenager was enough to drive exhausted Stiff to the ground, and Zoie, irrational from trauma, drove fist after fist into Stiff’s face, yelling with anger.  Blood began to squirt, splattering her own face with blood while Stiff’s became increasingly black.  Stiff was almost unconscious when Stevenson and two officers whipped through the doors, the two officers’ guns unwisely drawn.  Stevenson rushed over to the quarrelling two, pulling Zoie off Stiff.  Still throwing fists wildly, Zoie was pulled away, and two officers held her while Stiff slowly recovered.  Once she was on her feet, her boss berated her.