The sun was setting when she carried the metal garbage can to the curb with their remains in it, where they sat underneath the stale chocolate cake that Sheila had thrown away and a pile of mildewy lettuce. “Bad hemorrhage,” he said. Sara Darnell was a sprightly, svelte twenty-five year old who was known for serving detentions at meter maid frequency, if only to be taken marginally more seriously by the predominantly male Lincoln High Science Department. “She seems an unusually clever girl,” said Ramage. He breathed heavily, as though he had been running. It had been his fevered imagination that had endued the garment with some extraordinary value.
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