And when's the last time he poured wine into such a small cup?

Nance wandered down interminable aisles of peanut butter and Minit Tapioca. Unexpected encounters with reality had brought her to a crisis of sorts: the revelation that life could be so much better and so much worse than the soporific stumble from bed to office to kitchen to bed. People suffer and crumble and fall for no good reason; justice is meted out by gossiping lawyers and careless judges and counsel's advice may rest on the inconvenience of another three hour drive. The courtroom on a reserve up north will always be full and unpayable fines for petty crimes will meet their match in shallow and endless violence. She herself is little more than a commodity, a tool; "mentoring" is just another term for whetting the blade. The question of the moment is in whose hands she will place herself to be wielded; for what is she willing to be broken?