“I hope,” said Miss Stanley, with dignity, and turned doorward with features in civil warfare. The sky periodically pummeled her with hail pellets as she would pass through the deserted intersections. She had imagined that prisons were white-tiled places, reeking of lime-wash and immaculately sanitary. And all this time perhaps you have been waiting, expecting to hear from me. Her linen gown was soft against the heavy skins. 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. And here's the proof.
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