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I’m looking at my dry, cracked fingers under hers as she continues to speak. Her fingernails are painted a pinkish orange, like the roses in Mrs. Dunwitty’s garden. I envision the tips of her rosy fingers tracing circles down the back of my neck just before I kiss her. Obviously, I’m not listening anymore.

Charlotte removes her hand and snaps her fingers in my face to awaken me. I feel my ears flame up. An apology tumbles off my lips. “Sorry.” Why am I always apologizing to this girl? Greta’d have a fit if she saw how easy it is for me.

“Me, too,” Charlotte says, her voice full of disappointment. She pushes away from the table and stands with her hands in fists on her hips. I can tell I’ve missed something during my daydream.

I stand to face her, even risk putting my hand on her shoulder. “Look, Charlotte, I want to help you. I think I mean that.”

She shrugs away from me. “But?”

I don’t want to hurt her, but I need her to understand I’m doing the best I can. “You don’t know me. You don’t know that I feel like I’m constantly teetering on a fine edge of madness and the only thing that keeps me balanced is focusing on a steady horizon. My carefully planned future is what keeps me sane—a future I’ve been working toward since well before I met you.”

Charlotte’s lips part as a breath hisses past her teeth.

“This is my future.” I pick up the MIT catalogue. “This is who I am.”

“Some ass puppet on the front of a brochure?”

A hybrid scream/groan gurgles up from my chest. “Why do you need my help?”

Charlotte looks away, her breathing ragged. “I need more time—”

“For what?”

Charlotte practically spits her answer in my face. “To figure my shit out.”

“See? I don’t know what that means.” Frustration, fueled by anxiety, is crawling up my spine. I don’t even try to keep my voice low. “We’ve all got shit to figure out!”

My outburst surprises us both. We’re inches from each other, too close. In the aftershock of my yelling, we each take a step apart.

“You’re right,” she says before she turns and walks away, rubbing at her eyes with the heels of her hands. “Just forget it. Forget the whole thing.”

The front door slams right about the same time the adrenaline washes over me with a wave of jitters so violent my skin crawls. Now that she’s gone, I feel like my entire future may hinge on the girl I’ve driven away.

Sighing, I follow her outside.

Charlotte’s legs extend from the top step of our porch into the rain. Rivers of water are running down those long legs and pooling in her sneakers.

“I shouldn’t have shouted,” I say, as I close the door behind me. She looks up at me with dull eyes, but doesn’t answer. I try again. “Will you be okay?”

She looks out at the gray rain and chokes on a bitter laugh.

I’m not sure if that was an answer. Should I leave her alone? Offer her a ride home? Stand here and recite pi to the thirty-fourth decimal?

“Sit with me?” she asks, her eyes still on the rain.

I lower myself onto the step next to her, trying to tuck my legs under me in some strange yoga pose to keep them from sticking out into the rain. It’s no use though. I end up losing my balance and toppling into Charlotte. I jut my legs onto the steps below and watch as the rain splatters on my pants, dark pinpricks that spread into thumbprint sized splotches.

Charlotte groans next to me. “Oh, God, Charlie,” she exhales. “I’m sorry, too. I know what I’m asking you to do is insane. You should just forget you even know me.”

“We both know that’s not possible.”

Charlotte’s eyes seem so much older, full of things I can’t understand. When she smiles, it doesn’t reach them. She wraps her hands around my arm and shakes me as she pleads. “Okay, don’t forget me, but please, don’t make me go home. It’s miserable.”

She drops her head on my shoulder and looks up at me. “Did you know Jo doesn’t allow sugar in the house? Has us on this horrible whole foods diet. It’s all antioxidants all the time. How’s a girl supposed to survive like that, Charlie?” She’s trying to be funny. I think. It feels so sad though that I just stare at her.

She drops her hands back into her lap.

“You can stay for dinner,” I offer.

The right side of her mouth pulls up a little. “You asking me to dinner?” Her shoulder nudges mine.

“No,” I say too quickly.

More silence as the rain continues to kiss the ground.

“Why don’t you and Ms. Finch get along?”

“Because I’m sick in the head.”

I think she’s joking, so I say, “Crazy teenager,” but her laughter feels wrong. My body shivers with the sound of it. Or, perhaps, I’m just cold. My pants are soaked and the fabric is wicking the cold rainwater toward my crotch. “Charlotte, is there something I don’t know?”

“Despite your IQ, I’m sure there’s plenty you don’t know.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

Charlotte watches the rain instead of me. My ears are feeling hot. Why won’t she just say what she means? Girls defy all logic. Or maybe I’m just incapable of understanding their brand of logic. I don’t know. What I do know is that I can’t sit here any longer, feeling the touch of her arm on mine and imagining her head resting on my shoulder. I hop up, wrenching myself from the closeness of her skin.

Charlotte grabs my calf. “Wait. I’m sorry. Again. Pay no attention to the foolish girl in the rain.”

We chuckle, but it’s hollow. I shift my weight from foot to foot and wish I’d been able to get Becca out here to help. I think I’ve only made Charlotte’s mood worse.

Charlotte tugs on the leg of my pants. “Where ya headed?”

Crap. Uh, wherewherewherewhere? Somewhere she’d never want to go. “Comic book store.”

“Take me?”

It’s a simple question. She wants me to take her to the comic book store. Right? Simple question = simple answer. Except what I say isn’t simple.

“Love to.”

---

Charlotte may be beautiful and cool, but as soon as I get her into Comic Place, her true colors are out. Charlotte is a nerd.

She’s in love with every comic and graphic novel she touches. I’m surprised once again by the things we share—the things that move us both. We pour over the racks as she devours the colors, action, and shapes that move for her across the pages.

“Look at the lines in this one, Charlie,” she says, shoving another Avengers in my face. “Look at the expression on Hulk’s face.”

“Well, it’s hard being Dr. Banner,” I say, looking up from my book. She stops flipping through pages and looks at me with her brows pulled together. “He’s hiding a monster inside himself. Never sure when it’ll erupt and tear down, like, a city block.”

She looks back at the illustration. “I totally get that.”

I reach over and pull out a Fantastic Four, pointing to The Thing on the cover. “It’d be worse to be Ben though. All everyone sees is the monster.”

Her expression gets serious, lip clenched between teeth, eyes narrow, as she studies Ben.

“I feel his pain,” I say.

“Why?”

“Well, look at me,” I pause, frozen in her eyes as she looks at me. I swallow. “I’m a geek, right?”

“If you say so.”

“No. Everyone says so.”

There’s a half-smile pulling at her lips. “So, what you’re saying is that you are a geek on the outside, but a muscle head on the inside?”

“Sure,” I say, drawing the word out. We laugh. “I’m just saying, it’s hard to be anything but a monster, when that’s what everyone expects of you. Plus, we can’t all be gorgeous like—”

“This guy,” Charlotte says, pulling Thor off the rack and shoving his blond, muscleyness in my face.

I laugh. “I hate that guy.”

Charlotte puts Thor away, and takes the comic with The Thing. “I’d like these,” she says, handing the cashier an Avengers and my Fantastic Four. When we leave, she touches my arm. “Thanks.”

“For what?”

“For making me feel like less of a monster.”

On the drive home, I consider her from every angle. But any way I look, she’s beautiful.

3.2

It continues to rain. Not gentle rain, but wake-you-too-early-with-thunder-and-wind-slamming-against-the-windowpane rain. When we get to English on Monday, Ms. Finch is sitting by the windows in the back of the classroom. The syllabus on the board is a unit on short stories, which will be painful, I’m sure, but at least they’re short.

A streak of lightning reaches for the ground outside, making her flinch. Forgetting we aren’t speaking to her, she asks, “Does it rain like this often here?”

The class stares back at her, careful not to shake or nod our heads.

She sighs, her chest rising as she fills her lungs with the silence. “Right.”

Another flash draws her attention back to the window. “Anyone familiar with the poet Robert Frost?” She doesn’t pause for an answer, but continues, “Normally, kids learn about him in American Lit. However, since you’re obviously not normal kids, you may have no idea to whom I’m referring.”

She places a hand against the windowpane. “‘Something there is that doesn’t love a wall.’” She turns and assesses our faces, her lips pressing together. “It’s from ‘Mending Wall,’” she says in exasperation. “In the poem, two neighbors meet each year to mend the gaps in the fence between their properties.”

We look uninterested, but sweat prickles along my brow. Too much talk of walls and barriers. When are we going to get to the short stories? I can’t believe the lesser of two evils at this juncture is a short story.

Ms. Finch strolls up the center aisle toward her podium. “Literature is different from math and science because we don’t always have one correct answer. So I ask not what are you keeping out,” she says, turning to face us, “but what are you holding in? The answer will be different for each of you.”

This time it’s impossible for most of the class to keep up the disinterested façade. Every one of us is searching for the answer to her question. Ms. Finch’s keen eyes are on me. She’s made a gap in the wall. She’s made her way in, just like Charlotte predicted.

And she knows it.

---

Greta grabs my arm above the elbow as we leave Ms. Finch’s classroom. She steers me past my locker, which is far too close to Finch’s office, and around a corner before letting go.

“Something’s going on.”

“What?” I swallow a chunk of anxiety wedged in my throat. I still haven’t said anything about Charlotte, and with each day it gets harder to keep it to myself, but equally as difficult to find the words to explain her.

“Finch is acting weird.”

Yes. In my experience, this is true.

James leans against a locker beside me. “Naw. She’s just worn down. Teachers like to make an impression and all that crap.” He shrugs his massive shoulders. “She’s just bummed she’s not making a difference in our lives.”

I nearly pass out from the exertion of holding up all the irony. Ms. Finch just so happens to be making an enormous impact on my life.

Because Ms. Finch couldn’t pass up some stupid opportunities, she moved herself and her little sister here. As a result, said little sister (and her tempting long legs) have practically moved into my house, making it impossible for me to go a day without discovering something new that intrigues me—things that I must study more in depth. God help me, I love a problem to solve.

Greta’s shaking her head though. “No. It’s something else. I’m not the only one. Some of us were talking about it in—”

“Mr. Hanson,” Dr. Whiting, our principal, interrupts, his loud voice cutting through the chaos of the busy halls. “Just the young man I was looking for. A word?” He nods in the direction of his office and takes off without waiting for me.

Greta and James exchange a look, but before either of them says anything, Dr. Whiting turns around. “Actually, Miss McCaulley, please join us.” He nods once at James before spinning on his heel again.

James turns a deep mahogany, but he rolls his eyes and grins. “Later, suck-ups.”

Greta swats at him before grabbing one of the straps of my backpack and pulling me after her.

“Have a seat,” Dr. Whiting says, pointing to a set of uncomfortable-looking red chairs in front of his massive desk. He runs a hand down his tie, straightening it along his barrel chest. I keep my backpack on, perching myself on the edge of my seat.

“I asked you here because I wanted to discuss a pertinent matter with you both.” He gives us what I’m sure he thinks is a soothing smile, but since his canines are prominent, it looks more like a snarl. “As our top students, you two are paragons at Brighton. The other students look to you for guidance.”

I try not to snort because they aren’t looking for guidance. They’re looking for weak spots to exploit so they can be top of the class—chinks in my armor like Charlotte Finch.

Dr. Whiting leans back in his chair, his hands behind his head; his elbows jut out, reminiscent of less than and greater than symbols. “We on the staff are all aware that Brighton has a reputation where the humanities are concerned, chiefly our literature classes.” He pauses to let that sink in, still reclined like a sleeping puma ready to shred our skin when we least expect it. Greta and I steal glances at each other. Her face has gone so pale even her freckles have disappeared. “Unfortunately, that reputation is starting to spread into the STEM community. I will not be a laughing stock. I’m expecting both of you to be the kind of leaders Brighton deserves. The kind of leaders I can feel good about standing behind when universities come calling.”

He drops his arms and leans forward to turn a picture frame around on his desk. “Mr. Hanson, this may interest you.” It’s a picture of a young man and a younger Dr. Whiting at a graduation. MIT banners are unmistakable in the background. “That’s Devon, my son. Graduated a few years ago. And let’s see…” He turns to the bookshelves along one wall and points to another picture. “My daughter Annabelle is there now. In fact, she’s one of Dr. Bell’s research interns. You’re a fan of Dr. Bell’s research, if I’m remembering correctly?”

My ears are on fire and the heat has dried out my mouth. I’d choke if I tried to answer.

“You must be proud,” Greta says beside me.

He looks her straight in the eye. “As proud as a Stanford man can be.”

Holy mother of batshit. He’s passive aggressively threatening us. Greta’s number one university choice next year is Stanford. And MIT has been a plot point on my straight arrow lifeline since I was ten. The fire in my ears spreads to my whole body, scorching my insides so that I fight the urge to scream and run away.

Greta is cool, though. She just smiles and nods. “You needn’t worry, Dr. Whiting. Charlie and I are committed to our studies. Just the other day, we were commenting on how much more agreeable English is this year because Ms. Finch is trying her hardest to help us relate it to math and science.” She nudges my knee with her own. “Right, Charlie?”

“Uh,” I cough to clear my baked throat. “Yes. Books are fun.”

Greta groans imperceptibly.

Dr. Whiting smiles as he stands and comes around his desk, his arms open. We stand and he takes each of us by a shoulder. “That’s just what I expected to hear. You should also know that I have other, particular, reasons for wanting Ms. Finch to have a smooth year here.” He walks, tucking us under his arms, to the door of his office. With a final squeeze he pushes us gently out the door. “I’m glad we’re all on the same team.”

---

Greta rages the whole way home. She pulls strings of curses out of her mind like she’s unraveling the universe’s favorite sweater. James is in freak-out mode.

“How does he know? Who ratted?” He’s dented the kinky curls on both sides of his head, squeezing it tightly between giant palms, so his head now looks oblong, like an egg.

“He doesn’t know dick,” Greta says. The sound of her voice is a fierce growl in her throat. “How dare that pompous, meddling…” She continues to unwind another mile-long thread of swear words.

I agree with Greta. Dr. Whiting doesn’t know we’re actively doing anything to harass Ms. Finch. Probably because we’re passively harassing her. In the past, seniors were a bit more up front about their distaste for literature. And the thing is that Dr. Whiting didn’t do much to stop them.

Brighton recruits students from all over the state. The facilities are immaculate, the teachers are top in their fields (at least math and science), and the students are indulged like rock stars. Normally, our more displeasing attributes are overlooked in the name of status quo. That status being that Brighton produces some of the brightest minds in the southeast and therefore has very generous donors. I’m not sure why this year is different, but something is going on.

“What’re we going to do, guys?” James is rolling his head from side to side on the back of the seat. “I’m the one who dragged you into this, but I had no idea Whiting would—” He smooshes his hair again. “What do we do?”

Greta looks at me and I’m reminded of a story her father loves to tell about her great-great-great-grandfather who was a street fighter in Ireland. He saved every penny from his fights and bought two tickets to America on the earliest steamer. Then he went to his favorite girl’s house and proposed. I’ve even seen a picture of him, his arm thrown around Greta’s great3-grandmother.

Greta gets her looks from granny, short and curvy with fair, freckled skin and fiery hair the color of a bonfire at full blaze, but the fierceness in her eyes that burns brighter than the fire of her hair is from her impetuous, street fighting great3-grandpa.

“No one threatens Greta Lynn McCaulley,” she says through gritted teeth. “We carry on.”

“But—”

“We. Carry. On.”

3.3

Charlotte is curled up on the couch in my living room with a single light on when I get home. The steady rain has begun to rumble with thunder like Smaug waking from his sleep.

“Don’t you ever go home?” I ask, flopping down on the chair adjacent the couch.

She closes the book in her hands and I can see Shakespeare’s face peering out from the cover. Yes, I know who Shakespeare is. No, I haven’t actually read any of his plays.

“Who wadded up your panties and shoved them down your throat?” she asks, sitting up.

I mentally gag on that unpleasant image. “Ew, Charlotte. Just. Ew.”

A smile snakes across her face.

“Seriously, why are you always here?”

She hugs the book to her chest and picks at the binding. “I like it here. Gotta problem with that?”

I shrug. “Are you fighting with your sister? Something is up with her and I don’t think it has to do with a bunch of math geeks ignoring her. Is she sick or something?”

Charlotte sits up straighter. “She’s not sick.”

“Okay, then what?”

“I don’t want to talk about Jo.”

“Well, neither do I, but my principal felt the need to drag me into his office this afternoon and threaten me if I mess with her.”

Charlotte sinks back into the cushions, curling in on herself like smoke in a vacuum.

“Spill. Why not go home, Charlotte?”

“What home?” Charlotte’s voice drowns under a roll of thunder. “My sister’s house? My stupid, selfish father’s house full of sad memories and empty bottles?” She stands, clutching her book. “What home, Charlie?” Her cheeks are flushed and I have to look away to ignore the way her ragged breathing is rattling her very bones.

I stand, too, but I’m afraid to move closer to her, afraid she’ll move farther away, like an electron repelled by one of its own kind, which strikes me instantly as strange because Charlotte and I seem so different. How can we be made of the same stuff? I pitch my voice low, in yet another attempt to keep her from skittering away. “I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I. I can’t explain what I don’t even understand in my own head. I just know that when I’m here,” she gestures to the space between us, her hand fluttering like a flame about to be guttered, “I am home.”

I unintentionally take a step away from her, surprised by her admission. It’s what I thought I wanted, but it scares me, too. Charlotte looks away, swiping at her eyes with the back of one hand.

When a beautiful girl says you are like a home to her, you should swoop in and kiss her or something. Not leap away. I try to bridge the fissure opening again between us. “Am I like home?”

“I don’t know, Charlie. Are you going to let me in?” Her glare is a paradox in itself. It freezes my heart, but ignites other parts. It’s like I’m constantly being torn in two whenever I’m around her. It’s inevitable. I snap.

“Me?” My voice cracks on the word. “You’re the mystery woman, asking about theoretical cats and refusing to explain what’s going on with you and your sister. You lay all this shit out at my feet, but don’t bother to explain any of it. What am I supposed to do?”

There is a tiny moment where I can see past the seething anger in her eyes. One tiny moment when I can see something else—fear, confusion, hunger, maybe even hope. But then it’s hidden again, deep below Charlotte’s surface.

She spits the words, “Figure it out, genius,” at me before turning to leave, but I step in front of her.

“I’m trying to, but you need to let me in, too.”

“Don’t tell me what I need to do, Charlie.” Her voice wavers, sad and angry tones tearing each other apart in her throat. “I’ve got enough people telling me what to do.”

“I’m not telling you what to do. I’m asking you to let me in.”

“What if I can’t do that?”

“Then why should I care?” This I ask as much for myself as her.

Charlotte’s intake of breath is quick and sharp, like I’ve plunged a syringe of adrenaline into her chest.

“I thought we were friends,” she says, her voice breathless.

“If we were friends, you’d trust me enough to tell me the truth.”

Her eyes waver, and I think I’ve done it. I think I’ve cracked her code. But then she shakes her head, crossing her arms over her chest, a universal sign she’s done talking.

I want in. Why won’t she let me in? I’m helping her. I’m—tired.

“I don’t need this,” I say, and every atom in my body feels how wrong it is, but I turn away from her.

3.4

The next day, school was pretty uneventful, which was good because I can’t handle much more. The only problem is that the crack in the wall Ms. Finch made is growing. Today we read a science fiction story about time travel. Afterward she asked if anyone had an opinion about the probability of the author’s time machine actually working. Three people’s hands sprang up before they realized what they’d done. Charlotte was right. We’re going to need a new plan.

On top of that, I kept thinking I heard Dr. Whiting’s loud whistle out in the hallway during English, but I never caught a glimpse of him through the small window in the door, so I can’t be sure.

When I arrive at Mrs. Dunwitty’s to do my penance, she calls me up to the porch and motions for me to sit in the other rocking chair. “Sit your bony ass down, Jack.”

I want to ask who Jack is, but decide to do as I’m told. I remind myself this is the last day I’ll have to put up with her. I’d have bailed on her weeks ago, but she wouldn’t think twice about narc-ing on me to Dad.

“Tools can get you to powerful places,” Mrs. Dunwitty says, turning the fraying brim of her sunhat in her hand.

We’ve been rocking along in silence for a few minutes when she hits me with the crap about the tools. I raise my eyebrows and she finishes, “But having the tools doesn’t mean you know how to use them properly. Understand, son?”

No, you insane bat, I have no idea what you mean. But I nod and mumble, “Yes, ma’am.”

Mrs. Dunwitty is no dimwit. “Don’t lie to me, Jack.”

“My name’s Charlie,” I say, but I can’t make myself say it loudly and it comes out like a question.

Dimwit rolls her big eyes at me. “Short for jackass.”

“Oh, well. Okay…” I look down at my hands gripping the arms of the chair. The white paint is worn.

“Today, Jack ”—she puts great emphasis on my new nickname—“you’ll clean and store the garden tools. Winter’s coming and the tools will be put away.”

“Easy,” I say, standing. “I’ll get right to it.”

“You do that then,” she says in a tone that indicates I’ve made a fatal mistake. I pause and glance back at her. She looks expectant, but seriously, how hard can it be to shove some tools in a shed? I shrug and walk around to the shed at the back of the house. She’s still rocking when I come back ten minutes later.

Wiping muddy hands on my stained T-shirt, I declare, “It’s all done.”

She gets up from her chair, reaching for her cane, and follows me to the back yard. She’s slower than usual and I have to stop and wait for her to catch up a few times. Must be all the rainy weather affecting her joints. My grandma used to complain about that.

Mrs. Dunwitty nods toward the door of the shed, which I open obediently only to have a rake handle crack me viciously on the forehead.

“Ow! Crap.”

“Yep. Crap job. Do it again,” Mrs. Dunwitty says as she begins walking away.

I stand rubbing my forehead. She won’t let me go until I get it right. She’ll keep me here cleaning tools until spring arrives.

“Wait,” I call. “Aren’t you going to tell me how you want it done?”

“I want it done correctly,” she says, still walking away from me.

“But—”

She stops.

“I don’t know how. Can you teach me?” I ask, defeated.

She turns around with a wide smile, “Yes, Charles. I can.”

When we’re finished, we walk back to the front. “One last thing. Would you please put the new angel in the garden for me?”

I’d laugh, but I’ve just swallowed my tongue. Mrs. Dunwitty just said please. The world must be coming to an end. She laughs at my expression and shakes her head as she walks up to the porch, “She’s in the garage. Don’t break her.”

I find the new angel where Mrs. Dunwitty said, but this angel is twice as big as the old angel and probably weighs as much as me. I’m not sure how to move her. I can’t even heft her into the wheelbarrow myself. I need help. Crafty old biddy is testing me. The angel’s wisp of a smile agrees with me.

I walk back out to admit that I can’t move her alone and see Mrs. Dunwitty scratching the pointy ears of a familiar hellhound. She looks up at me with a knowing expression in that wrinkly face. “Problem?”

“I need help.” I peek at Charlotte, her cheeks pink from walking her dog. “The angel’s too heavy.”

“Don’t look at me,” Mrs. Dunwitty chuckles. “That’s why I’ve got you around. I’m too damn old for lifting angels.”

Charlotte pushes a curl behind her ear. She holds my gaze prisoner with her own. “I’ll help, if it’s okay.”

“Well, aren’t you lucky? Looks like you’ve got a personal savior.” Mrs. Dunwitty leads Luna up to her porch for some water.

Charlotte and I stand like we’re stuck in tar. My savior is looking hot today in a pair of running shorts that show off her long legs. She catches me staring and bites back a grin. I motion for her to follow me to the garage.

“Charlie,” Charlotte says as soon as we’re out of Mrs. Dunwitty’s sight.

I don’t want to fight. Not now. Not where Mrs. Dunwitty will inevitably butt in and spout out more metaphors about gardening and life and crap. “Let’s just move this thing,” I say, positioning the wheelbarrow by the angel.

Charlotte swallows whatever she was going to say. She nods and follows my lead as we lift the new angel and settle her carefully in the wheelbarrow without incident. It was so easy that I’m thinking I could have lifted the stupid thing by myself after all.

I roll the angel out to the garden where I’ve prepared a spot for her amongst the roses. “I think I can get this,” I tell Charlotte, stepping up to the angel. I bend my knees, take a deep breath, and grip as hard as I can. Blowing all the air out of my lungs as I lift, I manage to pick the angel up in one swoop. I open my eyes and yelp. Charlotte is standing so close, just opposite the angel, her arms out like she was about to offer to help. She laughs and between that and the surprise and the actual weight of the angel, my grip slips.

“Whoa there.” Charlotte steps in to help. Her hands meet mine under the angel’s wings and we clasp them together to make a human safety net for the statue.

Protecting my machismo, I say, “I got it,” and try to yank the angel away, but Charlotte is freakishly strong and won’t let go of my hands.

“Let me help. Would it be so bad if you let me help?”

I sigh and study her face, soft and inviting, dissolving my residual frustrations. If the angel didn’t weigh so much, I may have lingered on it longer, but the rough concrete begins to dig into my skin. Without a word, I nod and we sidestep our way into the garden. Carefully, we tip the angel into place and step back to admire our work.

Дата добавления: 2014-12-24