Her bald head had swollen on her shoulders, puffy with fresh blood that ringed her mouth. She killed a man who was squatting outside of a freezing brick shanty on the southern edge of Chicago as he waited for his dealer. Sheppard, eagerly. Her interest grew as she read, a certain distaste disappeared. A beachcomber in embryo, and she had lent a hand through habit as much as through pity. There was only one prisoner in the ward.
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