“I do not like the blood!” Isobel said for about the hundredth time.
“Wimp! Besides, you still look amazing. Bet you’d even make a lovely corpse.” Michelle had her hooked up to a saline drip, because who didn’t get dehydrated in Honduras’ oppressive heat? Blood pressure cuff. Half a dozen bandages, as if for scattered cuts and scrapes. Several of them bloodied with a bag of blood they’d bought at a butcher’s shop in Tegucigalpa.
“But I liked these jeans.”
“Five-hundred-dollar Calvin Kleins?” They so weren’t.
“Forty-nine at Walmart. I still think like the girl who grew up poor.”
“Good.” Because Michelle had felt a little guilty about cutting the big slice across the thigh. “Maybe we’ll make them into cutoffs afterward.”
“You just stay away from me with your scissors.”
“I have shears
