Sarah’s proudest possession, Malibu Barbie’s Camper Van was chugging along her blue shag rug.  “Where are we going?” Barbie asked Ken in a nervous voice.

“Why do you ask so many questions,” Ken looked at the dash.  “Dammit, you never put gas in this thing.”

“Ken, don’t yell; you are scaring me!”

“Shut up. I’m stopping at this gas station; I don’t want you to make a sound.”

The TV blared in the living room while Sarah played with her Barbies back in her bedroom.  She could hear adults shouting in the den, but it was muffled over the blub-blub-blub of her fish tank filter (and the Skipper scolding–“Oh, Gilligan!”).

Sarah cocked her head and looked at her goldfish.  She’d had them since the fair last summer, but one looked a little cloudy and was lounging near the top of the tank.

CRASH

Sarah cocked her head towards the den — something was definitely going wrong out there.  “. . . the money–”

Sarah heard a strangled sob.

Moving the camper van onto the bed under her bedspread did two things.  It muffled the sound and simulated darkness.   The camper moved toward the blue of her top sheet all smushed at the bottom of the bed.

“Barbie, get out!”

“I don’t want to!”

“Just walk —

“I can’t walk on the pier in these heels — they’ll get stuck–”  Barbie’s heels were getting stuck in the crocheted afghan.

“Then don’t walk — “

At that point, Ken pushed Barbie off the pier.

Sarah stared down at Barbie spread eagle in the waves of the aqua carpet.

“Serves you right,” said Ken.