Her target was a fifty-four year old man who lived with his mother, an obese neighborhood woman, a widow named Dawn Plote. ‘Don’t, miss,’ uttered the boy. His eyes were narrow with desire like a panther’s as he grinned at seeing her visibly satisfied. Still—” Then, with incredible and obviously deliberate stupidity, and a voice as flat as her own, he asked, “Who is the man?” Her spirit raged within her at the dumbness, the paralysis that had fallen upon her.
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