Westview is flawless, and sentience of those housed in this fair town warp to agree.

Offsprings dilly-dally, frolicking God-knows-where maternal eyes could wander to dinner without a crumb of worry. Parks, lawns greener than nature itself, anywhere—so long as it's detoured from Elvis street—is securely safe. In a latter manner, grownups root focus on exhausting the sky's blues; do the job right, rick money in, kiss the boss's ass. Even then, durations are spared for family. Husbands, wives, pets.

All is quiet and peaceful—the white-picket fence she catered to her reality.

She'll damn an outsider meddling into her mundane.

"Where's Geraldine?" you barge in behind, dearest spouse, spewing that anomaly's alias with an accusing glob.

Never prone to raising your tone—at least, prior to Westview, squarely, afore your doomed death—and, presently, it gains a bite; a free will. Her heart's beats stammering, drumming because what had you overheard to rouse that nasty pitch?

Unease readily shreds with a tad of blinks and a swelling grin. "She left already, honey." Flung her out the town's bound like yesterday's garbage.

"Had to rush home." She shrugs, doesn't arc her neck to meet, what she imagines, are your pursed lips. Simply can't.

So, she cocoons her idle distraction; newborn Billy, swaying him to sleep. "Seems she's forgotten to turn the stove off or something. Silly Geraldine, right?" A casual laugh that's afraid of reaching her eyeful blues.

Geraldine doesn't have a home because she's affiliated with S.W.O.R.D. Damn department trying to wreck what she needs. Wants.

Yet her cool doesn't digress and so does playing dumb.

"But, forget about her, alright?" She fluidly strays, like the woman hadn't aided her earlier in her inhumanely brisk labour. "I could use a pair of arms. Tommy needs to be coddled, too."

She half-nods towards the crib, patently occupied with a swathed, tubby infant. Cute, your own flesh and blood.

Family's the locus—not Geraldine, not this urban's abnormalities.