On Thursday afternoon, June 27, I came rushing home from the library. I greeted my mother, telling her I was racing time. I had taken a quick glance at the stove at the dinner I believed was cooked for me. As I was getting ready to leave again--back to the library--my mother knocked on my door, informing me that my sister just dumped the chicken meal she had prepared for me. I glanced in bafflement at my sister before going out, who stood in the corner of the refrigerator, in the kitchen, in mysterious subdued silence. Later in the evening, I told her that she didn't have to dump the food, saying she could have eaten it herself, and she replied that she was giving mother a taste of her own medicine for having thrown her meals in the past to counteract her overweight. As I was watching a movie and eating an egg sandwich and chips, a red ambulance zoomed by shrieking, a small plane came flying, and several cars were driving by loudly, and I could not help feeling the FBI guy o