Maybe tomorrow she would go to the park.
Three blocks from the bus stop, in a small apartment on the first floor of a dilapidated building, a man was getting ready for the night shift.
Malik Johnson, as his neighbors and employer knew him, pulled a glove over his immobile right hand.
With his left hand, he buttoned his shirt.
Years of adapting to his disability had taught him to manage everyday tasks with one hand, but it always took longer.
The mirror in the tiny bathroom reflected a face that could only be described as frightening.
Deep scars crisscrossed the skin, leaving bizarre pits and ridges.
The right side of his face was more severely damaged.
His eye was deeply sunken.
His cheekbone was misshapen, and part of his ear was missing.
Malik, formerly Dexter Washington, put on his dark glasses and pulled the hood of his sweatshirt over his head with a practiced movement.
