Jeremy lived near Memorial Drive and Glenwood in a two-story house. The security light was on in front. He parked his car in the driveway, we exited, and he unlocked the front door, hand at my back to gently push me inside.
There was a small foyer where we left our shoes. I followed him into the living room and he turned on the light. It wasn’t too bright, thankfully.
“Come with me into the kitchen,” he said. “Let’s clean you up.”
I followed him past the loveseat and futon into the kitchen area. He stopped by the sink and asked me to sit at the table.
“You have some dirt on your face and some scratches on your left cheek.”
After wetting a washcloth, Jeremy gently held me by the chin and tenderly wiped away the dirt, cleaning out the grit that had buried itself in some of the scratches
