Clara Wren, Clara Wren, hood stitched shut and grinning. Pink eyes in the seam, black mouth, no beginning. Count her fingers. Stop at ten. The red on them was someone, then. Count the drops upon her chest. She wore them home. She did not rest. Lamps are lit. The doors stay locked. The street remembers who was stopped. She will not step. She will not call. Both hands out. That is all. Clara Wren, Clara Wren, if she knows your name, count again. Do not wipe the red away. Do not take her hand. She keeps what she is given. She kept the last one till day.