Ina is breaking her first diet. She’s walking up Nostrand Avenue on her way home from school. She’s spent her carfare on sweets, so she’s hurrying, trying to jog along nearly as fast as the bus. Meanwhile she’s stuffing candy in her mouth, feeling guilty and driven as well as half-starved. There’s a trail of silver paper behind her on the sidewalk, and malted milk duds are falling through her shaky fingers into the gutter. She doesn’t stoop to pick them up. She’s fallen low, but not that low.