That afternoon, it was warm and her shirt clung to her back. Her face had yet to be shaped by an individual nose; her skin was still unlined velvet; her shoes waited to be outgrown. She was out of breath from running, and her heart hammered inside her chest. She thought of all that she was ready to say to Djuna, and how if that didn’t end things between them, they could hunt four-leafed clovers on the rest of the walk home. Celia rounded the curve, and Djuna’s anger wafted back to her from the road’s edge in waves of sour air tinged with exhaust. The brown car was not Mrs. Pearson’s Volvo, or any other car that Celia knew. When Djuna turned, her face was equally unfamiliar. It was a face of terrifying possibility, ready to pull, or to be pulled in. It was a face capable of anything.