Not while Mrs. Delaney from the diner stared through the window and pretended not to know her.
Lily just bent down, picked up the cracked blue backpack she had carried since ninth grade, and wiped the mud off the zipper with the sleeve of her dead mother’s jacket.
The jacket was too big.
The town had always laughed about that.
But Lily liked the way the sleeves covered her hands when she was cold. She liked the way the inside pocket still smelled faintly of pine soap and cigarette smoke.
