Simone entered the room to find seated closest to the window, a frail, elderly woman dressed in a long, ruffled blouse, what looked like a broom skirt, and bare, worn feet. The woman turned in agonizingly slow movements to look at them. A scarf covered a head much too small to hold an adult brain. The big armchair seemed to be at the cusp of swallowing her up, and for just the smallest moment, Simone wondered if this was it. All her great, looming hope had been compacted and conjured into this puff of a person.
“You here to see the pluviophile?” The voice creaked like it hadn’t been used in ages. The body moved as if the joints needed oil, lubrication, and prying into the right fit. An empty mouth gaped into a grin devoid of teeth.
“They have come a long way,” Rizzo said with a gentle to
