Ahead of her in Walgreen’s line a fat boy slouches, son of a deli owner, she presumes, aiming life at low riders while slagging on some sofa, Ho-Ho in his hand. His face turns a glance to her, round head bound in black, skull-and-crossbones glaring, chin with 69 whiskers, some on pimple islands. Sweatshirt so big he’s torn cuff-seam holes, thumbs protruding while sleeves cover warty hands. Unlike other fat boys her linemate isn’t jolly, no appeasing smile, not naïve or innocent. Fountain of porno knowledge, she figures, the suety gang member police catch, while smart ones flee. She reads instinctively—- an evil fat boy used, abused, befriended by just a few for what they’ll get. At once she takes a liking to him. He’s unlikable after all, and she knows what that’s about.