"Pick one," she said.

"Why one? Why me? Why pick?"

But she was rubbing her lips together, as if there were cherries on a tree.

And so the story passes under a bridge, across which a girl in a pullover is walking, carrying a few jags of the dawn against her shoulders. Already her outline is a blur, for her path is opposed to ours; her destination lies elsewhere; and if you were to ask her her name, she would probably just look away and say something you would immediately forget, so that perhaps you might feel sorry for her, and decide not to try to tell her story after all.