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Shane Riley yanked his wet Levis out of a grimy washing machine, one of twenty or so in a Laundromat straight out of He also limped when he got tired, the result of the car accident that had cost him the chance of a lifetime. Given a choice, he would have stayed in Los Angeles and haunted his local gym, but he needed a job. Why, God? Mentally, Shane raised a clenched fist to the empty sky. Now his future was uncertain and his hope hung by the fragile thread of his torn ACL. As he reached back into the washing machine for his socks, the glass door to the Laundromat swung wide. A small boy burst through the door, followed by a woman in her twenties carrying a Spiderman backpack and a grocery bag dripping water. Brunette hair framed her high cheekbones and pretty face, but what most caught his eye was the faded red T-shirt from Venice Beach, his old stomping ground. When his gaze reached her feet, he saw a pair of worn-out Nikes. Next to her, the boy was barefoot. No child should have to go without decent shoes. The woman led the boy to a row of orange plastic chairs and plopped down the backpack. The plastic bag in hand, she headed for the wall of steel dryers just as Shane arrived at the same wall with his wet clothes. She glanced at him, but only long enough to take in his unshaven jaw and the scar above his left eye. The line marked where he had cut his head in the car accidenta freak crash caused by a deer leaping in front of his new Mustang GT in Malibu Canyon. His other scarsthe ones that changed his lifewere on his left knee and hidden by gray sweats. Until a week ago he had used a cane. No one dressed up to go to a coin laundry, and Shane looked particularly disreputable after driving ten hours straight on nothing but coffee and sunflower seeds. Signing with the Cougars had drastically changed his income and overall quality of life. The woman kept her back to him, a signal she wanted nothing to do with a stranger. Shane wished his sister had as much common sense, but when it came to men, Daisy had no good judgment at all. He blamed himself for that weakness. Several months ago, she had disappeared completely, so Shane had hired private detective Troy Ramsey to search for her. In their last meeting, Troy had been blunt. But that was the point. He wanted to see her. He needed to see her to apologize for abandoning her when she needed him, calling her terrible names, and for bullying her with his so-called faith. Frowning, he dug in his pocket for quarters for the dryer. Each coin bought him ten minutes of hot air, a quirk of fate that reminded him of the post-career counseling from Cougar management. Steve Dawes, a retired catcher, had pushed him to apply for the teaching job in Wyoming. Steve thought the change in scenery would do Shane good, and with his BA in history and a minor in education, he could teach with a substitute permit while he tested the waters of a new career. In Los Angeles he went to the gym five days a week. He ran until his knee hurt, then did push-ups, chin-ups, stretches, and crunches until his muscles screamed. When the principal of Refuge High School offered him a one-semester contract, he took it. In February he planned to try out again for the Cougars. A handful of coins bounced on the floor and rolled in a dozen directions. He turned and saw the woman picking up pennies, nickels, and dimes. Instinctively he bent to help her. His knee protested and he grimaced. When their eyes met, she recoiled from his scowl, her nose wrinkling as if he smelled bad. But I can manage. Pain shot from his knee to his spine. Holding in a moan, he answered with a grunt. Can I eat now? He sounded close to starvation. Settling on her knees, she peered beneath a washing machine, then reached under it. Whatever she saw, she needed it badly enough to paw through an inch of dirt. Shane dug in his pocket for quarters. They were canvas sneakers, wet from being rinsed, and the cheapest shoes a mother could buy. Even so, they were worn to the point of sadness. Only the laces were in good shape. Stark white except for traces of mud, they were brand new. As a boy, Shane had owned shoes just like them. As he pushed the Start button, the woman jumped to her feet. The woman lifted her chin, a defiant pose, but she had lint on her knees and a handful of dusty nickels and dimes, signs of her poverty. Even more obvious, she was twig-thin. Her leanness, he decided, had nothing to do with running, at least not the kind people did for exercise. She was skinny, defensive, and chasing down pennies. Next to them, the shoes clunked in an uneven rhythm. As the woman turned to the dryer, so did Shane. In the porthole window he saw the reflection of her face, softer now and composed as she turned to him. When her gaze flicked to the whitish scar over his left eye, her countenance softened yet again, raising her lips into a tiny smile born of kindness, maybe empathy.


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