She sprawled uncomfortably twisted on the floor near the propane stove with a match in her left hand.  Counting to one hundred and twenty, then to one hundred and twenty again.  Whispering another sixty as the thumb of her right hand ached with the pressure of holding down the pilot light knob.  She listened for the hiss of gas that would light the stove.  It never came.  But something else lit up, inside her; an angry frustration that had fed on dreams, digested them and turned them into a volatile bile that tasted sour in her throat.  She was about to explode with the striking of yet one more match.

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