There, hanging among Ann Veronica’s more normal clothing, was a skimpy dress of red canvas, trimmed with cheap and tawdry braid, and short—it could hardly reach below the knee. Michelle’s eyes were red and bloodshot. I am sorry, but you have spoilt me. “Shot through the lungs,” he remarked. Michelle was on her like a fly, asking her questions about her past foster homes she did her best to avoid, pretending to be swamped every night with sudden reams of homework and unable to be reached by phone. He was almost paralyzed with nervousness and desire. Yet here you are, and at precisely the right moment, too. Weeks hurled past, weeks that turned into months. But leave me here in my home, child, I will disintegrate if I am exposed.
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