The curve of his shoulders, the very angle of his feet, expressed relief at her apparent obedience. She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. ‘You, soldiers,’ she yelled. Saturday mornings at the Beck house were routine, coffee, newspaper, bagels, and Looney Toons in no particular order. He lived on the seventh floor behind a winding set of hallways that towered over her in their grayness. The man pulled up his horse grumbling, and turned round. ‘Then he went stark staring crazy, if you ask me.
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