No amount of scrubbing could remove the stains, the blood of an unknown man she had stolen from the scene of a car accident, a stupid drunk with no license who had wrapped his Chevy truck around a very large oak tree. His tie had demanded a struggle; he ought to have taken a clean one after his first failure. Her father’s step quickened to a trot. Tell me a story—with apple-blossoms in it—about people who are happy. Perhaps that was why Sheila began to observe Lucy, because both of them were poignantly aware of Lucy’s otherness. But, indeed, he’s very human. He hadn't followed this angle of thought in ten years: what he might have been, with a little shrewd selfishness. ’ She grimaced.
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