The wastrel, the ne'er-do-well, who went mostly nobly to a fine end. The soil was identical, the climate; still, they would not bear the Olympian fruit, with its purple-lined jacket and its snow-white pulp. Shari regaled Lucy with soap operatic tales of boy-girl intrigues at the high school, then spoke of her aspirations for the future. She had never had a pet, never had a real doll. He lowered himself onto her and entered her slowly, an inch at a time. ‘They’ve gone, miss,’ came the answer, muffled through the panel door.
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