It does not fall from the sky like a normal storm. It needles through the holes in your sweater, slips under your collar, soaks your shoes until your socks squish against the insides of your sneakers, and turns the cardboard sleeve around your wilted daisies into mush. By the time the last traffic light on Marigold Avenue flickers from red to green, your fingers are so cold you can barely feel the stems anymore.
Still, you keep walking.
Because in Los Alamos, New Mexico, people may ignore a little girl with wet hair and bruised knuckles, but every now and then someone feels guilty enough to buy a flower.
You know how guilt looks.
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