Beryl and Mandy headed toward Victoria Promenade, Mandy sticking to Beryl like denture grip, feeling the need to explain, and Beryl perplexed . . .
Hilda, her senses on overdrive, her eyes glued to Beryl’s back, followed.
Beryl was her only hope. She had no plan B.
Dunoon was not a busy place; homeless people were rare, and it didn’t take long for Hilda to feel, well, obvious—like a wart on a nose. Her onesie was as out of place as a codpiece on a receptionist. She wrapped her coat more tightly about her despite the sunshine.
She began to sweat like a boxer.
Despite watching Earth’s TV, she was completely unprepared for the sight of so many men: their aroma, their facial hair, their different sizes and weird shapes. Men with round stomachs hanging over belts, men in jackets too tight
