17 - Maeve
The boat-shaped monstrosity of the mall loomed over us. Of course, this being a Saturday, the lot was filling fast.
“Can you wait here for me?” Stan said, as he deftly expertly sliced his truck between two ill-parked vehicles. “I’ll get the paint.”
My answer was to snap off my safety belt. His truck was higher on its wheels, the kind that would mock any terrain, so getting out without falling on my face was a challenge. I managed it by grasping the door’s inner handle, then I gingerly stepped down, one foot at the time, while holding the crutches (plural) in the crook of my elbow.
I felt the heat stocked under the asphalt radiating through my soles. I pitied the tourists in their thin leather sandals. The trees the planners had planted (as an afterthought) were pitiful, and
