“Excuse me, young man." But my name is Minerva. "Are you alright?”
A young man sat on a hard plastic chair in a police station. His head was bandaged, his hands were bruised, and one of his feet was twisted an odd angle. Dark circles slept beneath his eyes, and the first signs of a concussion were forming. He blinked up at her, wincing with the effort. When his eyes finally focused on the woman, he grimaced with the effort. "I'm not sure," the man's browse net in
confusion, "I don't know what's going on."
"Well, then why don't you tell me," the old woman sat down next to the young man and pulled her purse into her lap. She wore many rings, all glinting in the harsh fluorescence of the station. Silk shirt rustling in th...
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