She came with the only bus going in and out of Cage. At 9:28 a.m., March 13, 1986.
She had but one suitcase in her hand, and a glare that dared you to ask why. “Hey, you know someplace I can spend the night?” She asked me.
“What’s your name?” I asked, as if in a trance.
“Didn’t you hear me? I need some place to stay!” Absentmindedly, I pointed down the road. After she had walked a little while, she turned and yelled something.
“What’d she say?” Nigel wrinkled his nose.
“Vreemdeling. It’s dutch. For stranger.” I whispered.
“It’s dutch for weirdo.” Nigel isn’t one for miracles.