On the path ahead of me, a thousand year old lady tottered at the speed of a hung-over snail. A whisper of urgency touched my soul. I recognized the blue dress from the lady who’d been talking to the gravestone earlier. My humming nerves zeroed in.
“Her,” something said. “Save her.” Ah, hell. That internal voice was never good.
She hung a right and headed for the curb.
“Shit.” Frederick Street is busy. You wouldn’t cross it if you’d won the Olympic one hundred meter sprint. She must have lost her freaking marbles, or she’d made a dementia suicide pact and her time was nigh.
Suicide granny did the left right check first. A good sign she wasn’t looking to meet her creator yet. She stepped off the curb and started shuffling for the center line. A car zipped past, blowing her hair from her pink skull and plastering her blue floral dress to her boney bent frame.
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