Michael Malone - Weebly

Road.
Both tall, lanky, free-limbed, both in jeans, loose
shirts, and jogging shoes, Polly and Luke were
immediately, automatically labeled by passing motorists
as generic American teenagers, indistinct as to age or
social background or economic status, barely
distinguishable by sex, pretty much warranted against
fear and want, burdened largely only by their own
almost limitless self-expectations and by the trials that
adolescent flesh is heir to—acne, lust, emotional havoc,
and other drawbacks to happiness from which the
government, though it tries, cannot guarantee
protection. Among those drawbacks, the dirty tricks of
that foe to the free world, Death, rankled as injustice in
the hearts of Polly and Luke.
As they scuffed past St. Andrew's Episcopal
Church, Polly noticed Sebastian Marco at work again
in the bright colors of the garden. Nearby a black
Lincoln sat in the gravel drive, its trunk open. Father
Highwick must be back from New York. With disgust
Polly realized that thoughts of all the horrific news there
was to tell the rector had bubbled up in her at the sight,