" "A child!" thought Wood; it must be the fugitive Darrell. They simply understood there was a greater need to get over the past than to talk about it. ’ He sighed. She tied the obi clumsily about her waist, then gently laid her hand on the bowed head. She kept him talking all the way to the doorstep of the Beck's home, a small 1970s brown split-level in the old part of town. When the word “FREAK” appeared scratched in the persimmon colored paint on her locker, she knew that in some fragile young woman’s mind a war had escalated from imaginary to physical. However, confession of a fault makes half amends for it.
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