"Dear God, it's her," Marie haltingly whispered as the nun stared vacantly somewhere above her head as if bored.
Marie felt dizzy. Two years ago on her nineteenth birthday, a furnace explosion killed her mother, and now this.
She needed Junny. Junny, the Dutch vernacular for Johnny, was the love of Marie's life since her first glimpse of him through barn windows in 1932. Gutsy determination and strong human spirit had gotten her this far. She took a deep breath, lifted her chin, brushed past the blank-faced nun and walked out the morgue door.