On a brisk February morning he found her on his front yard wrapped in a dirty tarp. On her person, only a pair of new, red sweatpants. The way those legs folded out from under the tarp brought to mind a deflated Christmas display. Blood, smudges and streaks crimson black, hers, he guessed, sprung from where her fingernails had been ripped off. After this brief exam he pulled the tarp over her feet, secured the arrangement with three cinderblocks, then picked up the morning paper. Though she was already a celebrity in his mind, he figured he'd check the news for a second opinion.
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