He was clothed in an ill-fitted and worn black suit, the coat patched in places and moth eaten about the collar, the pants just a bit too long, lappin... over the brown shoes that sat untied on his feet. A pair of smooth and able hands passed over the wrinkled fabric of the suit, and straightened the black cotton tie. He bent to inspect the shoes. Like the suit, the loafers were fitted improperly, and worn apallingly thin at the heels. Nimble fingers went to work at the laces, pulling the slim. She looked like one of the Shoa victims, a living ghost. She stared back at Kara with haunted, empty eyes, as if she didn’t comprehend what she was seeing. She tried to speak, but couldn’t quite get the words out. Finally she just gave up, and turned back to the television. Fear clutched at Kara’s breast. What had happened to the woman she loved? What awful thing had done this to her? Did she have a stroke? An overdose? What the hell was the matter, and why was she so engrossed in the. More

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