The girl stood beside the dresser, holding one of Mike’s framed photographs in her hands. It was a glamour shot of Mike’s wife, one of those airbrushed, angelic portraits you can get at K-mart or some such place, her hair a nest of springy platinum curls, too much makeup on her face. “She’s pretty,” the girl said, setting the picture back atop the dresser as Charlie came in. “Brought you some food.” He set the bowl of cereal and glass of milk on the dresser. “I wanted to pick up where we left off before.” “About your friend who died?” “About who you are,” said Charlie. He sat on Mike’s footlocker, folding his hands between his knees, and motioned with his chin for the girl to sit on the cot. She sat without protest, her eyes never leaving his. “Who are you?” he said after a few moments of uninterrupted silence fell between them. “I’m your catch,” she said. “I’m your find.” “That makes no sense.” “You found me, didn’t you?” “What’s your name?”
