Along Comes a Sinner

I immediately spied a small dark-haired girl, leaned out my window, and beckoned her over.

She was pale, slouched, and alone. Eyes downcast, she quickly approached the car.

“Get in,” I said simply.

She did.

As she slid into the car, she appeared even smaller, and her paleness was in stark contrast against the red leather seat which seemed to envelop her. She hid her eyes from me.

“Are you a sinner?” I asked simply.

“No,” she muttered, then she looked straight at me, blue eyes blazing, “Daddy, can we go, already?”

I scratched at a sore on my left hand, then chastised my self silently as I reached for the hand sanitizer. “How was school today, Eve?” I asked, as I thoroughly disinfected my right hand.

Her gaze fell to her tightly folded hands; they were immaculate. “Fine.”

I was about to ask her what “fine” meant, when my attention turned to a man standing on the other side of the street, looking nervously at the teeming mass of school children.

My fingernails began to ache.

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