Trembling over her, afraid to touch, Marcus never saw her face. Her chestnut hair is what he’ll remember. And the crimson nimbus of blood spreading across the asphalt.
She had barely squeezed into the last space ahead of him. The tail car of the accelerating trolley, snapping around the corner, flung her carelessly from the overcrowded bench in a merciless game of Crack-the-Whip.
Confused, the trolley driver stopped at the horrified shouts, saw her facedown with passersby swooping in to settle around her like Serengeti vultures.
Shaken, he started the trolley moving again, dropped off the students, and returned to the depot to wait.