Wood. I’ve accustomed myself to think of you— as if you were like every other girl who works at the schools—as something quite outside these possibilities. Perhaps this was the real turning point: the hour in which the disordered mind began permanently to readjust itself. She killed every month, twelve a year, and was for all intents and purposes a serial killer of middle aged men. When the word “FREAK” appeared scratched in the persimmon colored paint on her locker, she knew that in some fragile young woman’s mind a war had escalated from imaginary to physical. Before I met you I never met any one whom I felt I could love, but you have discovered depths in my own nature I had scarcely suspected.
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