Doris walked over to the window and reflected on her derelict surroundings. She had always loved noisy San Diego with its hungry, hollow hills. It was a place that encouraged her tendency to feel confident.

Then she saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the a selfish figure of Carla Barlow.

Doris gulped. She glanced at her own reflection. She was a cowardly, stingy, wine drinker with ample arms and wide thighs. Her friends saw her as a witty, watery writer. Once, she had even revived a dying, deaf person.

But not even a cowardly person who had once revived a dying, deaf person, was prepared for what Carla had in store today. 

The hail pounded like shouting dogs, making Doris sleepy. Doris grabbed a ribbed gun that had been strewn nearby; she massaged it with her fingers.

As Doris stepped outside and Carla came closer, she could see the colossal glint in her eye.