Ginger brings us things. Things we don’t want. Things we don’t need. Carburetor parts. Costume jewelry. Bratz dolls. In the dim morning hours, they’re all soiled and stink of bug spray. We kick them off the sidewalk, hope a dog takes them.
But they don’t.
We’d found her once wandering in the park. She wore peach, silk panties and a t-shirt that read, “What Would Jimmy Do?”
But her bracelet read, “Whispering Pines.”
We took her there, not far away, maybe a mile off the lake. The nurses thanked us, pulled her ass inside, and we got Irish Car Bombs at the Buffalo.
Now she brings us shit. Shit we don’t want. Shit we don’t need.