But Angie didn't move. She was watching the dust devil spin lazily near the rusted-out Chevrolet at the end of the lot. She was twenty-two, though the neighbors whispered she was much younger inside her head. She had been Angie babydoll for as long as anyone could remember—the pretty girl with the soft voice who never quite grew up.
He stepped even closer, close enough that she could smell cigarettes and cheap cologne. He reached out, his fingers brushing a strand of hair from her face. Angie didn't move, but inside, something shifted. The world felt suddenly fragile, like thin ice over deep water. angie babydoll
"He's not home," she said, her voice barely a whisper. But Angie didn't move
"Angie," he repeated, tasting the word. "That's a pretty name. Fits you." She had been Angie babydoll for as long
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"You take care of yourself, Angie babydoll," he said, using the name the neighbors used, the name that defined her.