About an unusual girl, appearing in the middle of a Sunday morning, to do a task, then just as suddenly disappearing in the immutability of time.
She stood up, patted herself down, and picked up her axe. She had an axe. Why would she have an axe?
"Where are you going?"
She considered for a while, the same way as before, when telling her name.
"I guess it doesn't really hurt if I tell you. You're too young anyway. Nobody'd believe you."
I was going to object, but then I decided it best if I keep my mouth shut. I was too curious.
"You know of a fellow named Martin Gozdar?"
"Sure I do. Everyone does. A mean man. And rich. And mean some more. What about him."
"Currently, he's sitting in the left pew, at the back, and while the rest of the congregation is looking forward, listening to the preacher, his eyes are turned to the side, to the right side of the church, way in front, where a young girl sits, just about barely starting to become a woman, and he's thinking of how he's going to follow her up the road, the way she always goes, back home to her sickly mother, and he's thinking of doing things to her along the way. Things you can't take back."
"What kinds of things?"
"Never mind that. I know what happens and I intend to prevent it."