Joe, my foster dad, was a heroin and booze addict. Indignation carried her through that night, that men and the world could so entreat her. “Didn’t you just get over an ear infection not two weeks ago? You’re asking for another one. “Annabel;” he moaned. He couldn't be in better hands than those in which he has placed himself. It was his redemption, his ticket out of hell—that blue-serge coat. This employment seemed to afford him the highest satisfaction; for a diabolical grin—it cannot be called a smile—played upon his face all the time he was engaged in it.
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