He took her hand in his, raising it closer, and gently touched the maltreated skin. “Neither you nor I, Nigel, are made of such stuff,” she answered. She kept him talking all the way to the doorstep of the Beck's home, a small 1970s brown split-level in the old part of town. “Is Coke okay?” He asked as he pulled into the gas station. Finally Lucy replied. Why didn’t I die? Why does God hate me so? Why does He not want me? I didn’t die because I’m weak, because I am cursed! I hate this poisoned world! But most of all. ” “My wife was astounded—wounded beyond measure.
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