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The day was warm even under an overcast sky and Hilary, uncomfortable, shifted his weight. She would be in the library, her favorite place, or on the bench by the colored glass window with her embroidery. She held it by the neck and broke the end of the bottle on the hard dirt. Her target was a fifty-four year old man who lived with his mother, an obese neighborhood woman, a widow named Dawn Plote. He fancied that when they had had time to reflect, they would regret it still more. ‘Why, that’s it. . He would never be able to figure out that: all these miles from Cuba, and you could get a perfecto for thirteen cents.
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