Eighteen
Clarence found his jacket and stretched one arm into a sleeve. Then stopped.
He couldn't wear this. They would know.
He shrugged it off and hung it back in his closet. Anyway, it covered up those pipes. His hat had to stay, too.
Slowly he closed the squeaky closet door. The morning had dragged between breakfast, bingo and baking—or, cookie sample time.
He checked his watch. Meds, check. Lunch, done. He should have till supper.
He glanced at his bed. Pillows curved to simulate his body. He tucked in the bedspread to make the "legs" bend right. Jingled coins in his pocket.
Out of habit, he patted his back pocket. Grrr. Where was that wallet? It had ... money yes, but also his only picture of her in this world.
He walked to the window looking out on his escape route. His fing
