“Then Octavia drops to her knees, rubs the hem of a skirt against her cheek, and burst into tears. "It's been so long," she gasps, "since I've seen anything pretty.”

“Her skirts are long and don't seem to have straight hems, and her shirts are loose and hang over the skirts, so it's hard to see where one ends and the other begins. But with her children, she has clear control. They flow around her like her long skirts, flapping away and returning. Karen knows they will return to her side, like a magnet assured of its eternal attraction to tiny metal filings.”

“It's meant to be pretty," whispers Octavia, and I can see the tears threatening to spill over her lashes.Posy considers this and says matter-of-factly, "I think you'd be pretty in any color."The tiniest of smiles forms on Octavia's lips. "Thank you.”

“But it's Posy, Gale's five-year-old sister, who helps the most. She scoots along the bench to Octavia and touches her skin with a tentative finger. “You're green. Are you sick?”“It's a fashion thing, Posy. Like wearing lipstick,” I say.“It's meant to be pretty,” whispers Octavia, and I can see the tears threatening to spill over her lashes.Posy considers this and says matter-of-factly, “I think you'd be pretty in any color.”

“Listen, Dundy, it's been a long time since I burst into tears because a policeman didn't like me.”

“​Crying on the kitchen floor, she looked up and gasped for breath, raking tears from her pale cheeks. “I need you,” she whispered. “Someone.”