From the outside, it looks one of those red peppers Grandma cooks with. Aren’t they pretty much empty inside? It might not be too bad. But when Mrs. Foster guides me in with a tender shove, it feels more like I’ve been stuffed into my mother’s purse.
“Go on, dear. There’s plenty of room in there for you and the drum.”
Just another lie designed to shoo off my enquiries. No use protesting.