Mrs. Madsen fetches the paper and greets the traffic of children that jumble by on their way to school.

Even when it’s cold and grey, and the zombie spell of a thirty-seven year old morning is upon her, she is still an anatomical atom bomb in her fluffy, unrevealing robe.

Mrs. Madsen waves and flashes a few teeth, “hi kidsâ€? she says—pleasantly routine.

One of the boys hangs behind, scuffing his shoes with every slow accentuated swing of his legs. Mrs. Madsen bends up with the paper and catches his eyes.

She’s no stranger to gawkers, but this boy couldn’t be older than fourteen. Chills prickle the nape of her neck.

“Hiiiiii Misses Maaaddson,â€? the boy drawls, blatantly reaching at his crotch through his pocket. He purses his lips at her.

“Excuse me young man. What is your name?â€? She drowns out the slight tremor of fear in her voice with stern articulation. No answer. She repeats louder, “your name?“

The other children turn the corner out of sight