"He fixed me," she said.
Alan reached out and petted her wings through her jacket. "Were you
broken?"
"Of *course* I was," she snapped, pulling back. "I couldn't *talk* to
people. I couldn't *do* anything. I wasn't a person," she said.
"Right," Alan said. "I'm following you."
She looked glumly at the road unraveling before them, grey and hissing
with rain. "Is it much farther?" she said.
"An hour or so, if I remember right," he said.
"I know how stupid that sounds," she said. "I couldn't figure out if he
was some kind of pervert who liked to cut or if he was some kind of
pervert who liked girls like me or if I was lucky or in trouble. But he
cut them, and he gave me a towel to bite on the first time, but I never
needed it after that. He'd do it quick, and he kept the knife sharp, and
I was able to be a person again -- to wear cute clothes and go where I
wanted. It was like my life had started over again."
The hills loomed over the horizon now, low and rolling up toward the
mountains. One of them was his. He sucked in a breath and the car
wavered on the slick road. He pumped the brakes and coasted them to a
stop on the shoulder.
"Is that it?" she said.
"That's it," he said. He pointed. His father was green and craggy and
smaller than he remembered. The body rolled in the trunk. "I feel --" he
said. "We're taking him home, at least.
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