Eight, not more than ten, head haloed in dark curls, she slept swaddled in a coat in a dented duct-taped Ford. And he sat,
Still in treatment, she was flipping pancakes before the rest of the group woke up, the batter hissing in the pan. The last of
low sun a smear of apricot jam I could lick off my thumb, porch boards warm beneath my shoe-loosed feet— how I could succumb