She looks like she may be twenty-five. At first, she asks me for a bag for her socks. I hand her one and smile.
“My name is Marie,” she says.
She sees the bag of combs that my friend has. “Can I have the purple one?” she asks.
My friend hands her the purple one and Marie explodes in disorganized hallucinations. “You changed the color and the size. Why did you do that? I wanted the purple one. 250,000 soldiers are going to die for what you did.”
Her rant continues and she walks away. The other homeless people on the park bench look away.
Harry says in a low voice, “She’s real bad today. Some days she has it under control.”
Marie comes back. She beings to shout. “You are a werewolf. You should not have changed the combs. You are…
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