Lye watches them carry the boy away. Girl? They said her but Lye would’ve bet it was a boy. He shakes his head. Maybe he should mention this to Doc next week. Lye slouches toward the back door. He stoops to pick up a pair of bent glasses. He slips them into his pocket and sweeps dark, curling hair back from his face. He wonders if it’ll start graying soon. He’s thirty-six, which is about the age his father’s hair went.
“Who’s the new kid?” He asks a passing nurse. “The one who had the fit.”
“Miranda Clarke, poor dear.”