It is I who am persecuted by the man who calls himself your husband. ’ She sighed relief to see a faint grin as he ventured to raise his head. A sound sleeper, she was not roused by the creaky openings and closings of drawers as Lucy packed a single duffle bag with underwear and soap that was pilfered from a multipack of Zest in the Beck’s downstairs bathroom. She moaned, having failed in her mission to find her mother and her God. “What ought you to do?” He began to produce his knowledge of the world for her benefit, jerkily and allusively, and with a strong, rank flavor of “savoir faire.
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