His mother had been Kenyan, and his skin was that rich ebony of true African lineage. His voice was an avalanche rumble as he sauntered over “I’m ...fter Lorne,” he announced. “Okay, that’s enough, fifteen each, I’ll take the last fifteen. Go to it.” I said. It was Karl’s whip, so he knew how to make it sing. Every strike was in a new spot, each drew the exact same triangular wound, every wound bled. Unbelievably, loreena was still counting them out. What Lorne lacked in finesse, he made up for. She’d catch his eye before he diverted his gaze, then she’d spread her knees a bit wider and play with her hair to lure them back. One day she followed him home, Casper isn’t a big town. She knew the neighborhood and devised a plan. She’d catch him at the supermarket and chat him up, or maybe feign illness and get him to take her to his home, or something. Maybe she’d borrow some boy’s car and run it into his mailbox. She saw his girlfriend one day after school, when she picked him up in her. More

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