He tilted his head. “You had a therapist?” “Dawn has one come to the shelter every Thursday. She sent me to see him when I wouldn’t stop setting fires.” “And you made him cry?” “Not on purpose.” It wasn’t her fault that it creeped him out when she sang “There Was an Old Lady Who Swallowed a Fly.” Over and over. In a dreary voice. Cackling whenever she said the word “die.”
