Lucy arranged her hair as Michelle had taught her instead of combing it out. They went into Michelle's tiny bedroom, bare except for a dresser, a closet, and a miniscule single bed that resembled her own at the Becks. Lucy cringed, her eyes widening. “You are very kind,” she said hesitatingly, “but I don’t remember—I don’t think that I know you, do I?” “I am afraid that you do not,” he admitted, with a smile which he meant to be encouraging. She dared not look directly at him, her head obscured by a gray hoodie, she had the slumped appearance of an androgynous adolescent. It's mighty lonesome down there for a man bred to cities. I’ll give you an uncrossed check, and then you can get it at the bank here, quite close by. And girls and women, perhaps, are different.
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