“Who are you?” Stanley asked. “Olivia I is dead, too, because of the stepfather and what he did to her with the pink thing, and because the mother walked on her. She was four years old. From Olivia I, there’s just me left. I’m her child mirror-image.” Stanley asked what her name was; she howled that she didn’t have a name, didn’t want one. “Who,” Stanley asked with a dry throat, “took over as the adult for Olivia I?” “The Outrider.”
