There were electric and ice plants, and a great store in which one could buy anything from jewsharps to gas-engines. She looked at the suitcase sadly and stashed it underneath her bed. Lucy complied, slipping the tight jeans over her white underwear. It ran in rivulets down her face, penetrating her hood and the thick quilting of her coat. He returned her impressive greeting almost mechanically. “Martin Chen!” Michelle shouted his name in an outburst, like an invocation. I did not have to dig deep in my imagination to create the status-obsessed suburban environment of Lucy’s modern milieu. She stabbed him with her canines.
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