She is pushed in through the door of the rural Mississippi clinic where I work. Behind her is movement, the rise and fall of slurred voices. Then a cluster of people crowd in behind her. But Lulu stands where she was pushed. She looks at me. I look at her, but not for long. When I look away, I’m not sure what I’ve seen there, in those black eyes with their faintly reddened whites. I’m not sure. I’ll have to look again.
But first there’s Veldene — Veldene! She is the leader of this pulsing assembly of women and children. Relying on an innate sense of decorum, she roughly seats Lulu before turning to me.
