for rescue. She flung her husband into the breach. Hugh will love them, she said. and so will William. They love strawberries. The butcher's large bland face did not move in the flap but his eyes blinked. Oh, he said. But I picked them for you. He was watching her, and she thought he was smiling, but with his face sideways it was hard to be sure. She wished the face would go away, the eyes stop looking at her. Smiling away hard, she thought of how she could jam her shopping bag up against the hatch. It would be right up against his face. It would be just the right size to block the face out completely. Oh, but I'm allergic, you see, she said wildly. To strawberries. She felt herself flood with heat. He was still just watching. It was as if he had unscrewed his head and wedged it in the hatch. The silence, with him watching, was unbearable. She went on piling words in front of his face. They bring me out in a rash. Well, a terrible rash, really. More like a ... disease. The word came out in a hiss. She was thinking, Leprosy. His face recoiled and disappeared from the hatch. She had not meant, of course, that Chinese people gave you leprosy. Sort of a rough rash, she amended. Like pustules. She had heard the word, but perhaps it was not quite what she meant. She had not exactly meant pus. And