RS Perry’s Cherry And Her Chimera
Copyright © 2026 All Rights Reserved Published by Penelope Ltd
‘I am a chimera. Not the fire-breathing, lion-headed, goat-tailed
kind, but the biological kind. Jim says I have two sets of DNA.
It’s like I absorbed a twin in the womb.’
— CHERRY MARIA TSHUI ESPIRITU 2002
PROLOGUE
A sperm wiggles into an egg, leaving you no choice about
who you will become.
‘Sí, es verdad,’ I whisper to the breeze.
She continued her thought, where and how you are brought
up can mold you, but your biology—your genes—are there
whether you like it or not. That should be true, except Jim
wasn’t convinced. He was a scientist, and without regard to
whether or not I understood, he bombarded me with names and
terms. In this case, Lamarck.
Jim suspected that not all evolution strictly adhered to
Darwin’s rules. He spoke about how the environment influences
your genes, epigenetics, and in some cases, can trigger changes
in your DNA. His words wove through my mind like a silken
thread, pulling at the fabric of my understanding and exposing
the raw and uncertain truth of evolution and the unpredictable
path that had led me here.
Some of these conversations happened before I fully realized
what had long lingered in my subconscious: I was uneducated,
not unintelligent. Born a girl in the isolated hills of Colombia, I
lived in a world where women were valued for one purpose
alone, and that purpose did not involve thinking. This was espe-
cially true if you carried the genes that made me curvaceous, a
trait that functioned as both a blessing and a curse.
It’s curious that I don’t mind letting my mind wander back
to that early life, but for some reason, I really don’t. Not that it
wasn’t disgusting, even abhorrent, but perhaps the distance has
finally made it safe to look back. I have traveled far from that
dirt, both in mind and in miles, to where my body now touches
the soil of Coyote Ridge in northeastern Washington State.
No matter how hard I try, I don’t remember the day of my
birth, nor the months that followed. My first memory is sitting
on the ground playing with stones, or bugs, or twigs. Then there
were wood fires and stars, the occasional tapir, birds, reptiles,
creatures that ended up on the dinner table when they ventured
too close. There was a mangy brown dog. I remember loving
that dog. And there are vague memories that I once had a
mother.
My mother has no name in those fragmented memories. If
she did, it has faded from my mind. She was just the woman
who fed me when there was food and the one who sheltered me
from the rain. She was a shadow in a world of shadows, a ghost
in a storm. She disappeared one night when the moon was
nothing but a sliver in the sky. I woke up, and the warmth of her
was gone, replaced by the cold, damp earth. I do not know if she
left of her own accord or if the mountains or jungle took her. In
Colombia, the hills and rainforests are always hungry.
Jim says memory is a deceptive thing. It is like a sunset that
fades and changes every time you look at it. He tells me that my
genes hold memories too, deeper and older than anything my
mind can recall. He calls it my biological memory. I call it being
haunted.
Where my story really begins is not with the misty remem-
brances of a child or the more vivid memories of my preteen
years. Those early days were unremarkable, neither particularly
good nor bad. Just the usual. We had little, and I didn’t miss
what I didn’t know existed: no TV, no radio, no magazines, or
books.
Everything shifted when I turned twelve. With no mother, no
sisters, no brothers, I was left alone with my father. He was not
the kind of man a developing girl should ever be left with. I
remember few women in those early years, which made Jim’s
question echo louder: Was it my genes that defined who I am?
Or the environment that shaped me? Or was it both?
CHAPTER 1
I try to relax. It happens sometimes. A moment here and there where
I let my guard down, and peace seeps in. A sense of ease has
washed over me, perhaps for one of the few times I can remember. I
have always been resilient, despite my upbringing, and to others I may
appear easygoing. However, beneath this calm exterior there has
always been a restlessness and unease. But today, reclining on Coyote
Ridge, the inner jitter is absent, replaced by the soothing warmth of a
late spring sun. Will it last? I ask myself, knowing that won’t, even in
this place, which is a far cry from the hills and forests of my youth.
Here, the air is sharp and smells of pine needles and sage. It is clean
and crisp. It doesn’t smell like wood smoke, sweat, and dying things.
This was the canyon, Wolf Canyon, that Cherry had heard about
for so long from her friend, Maria Dakine, and Jim’s adopted
son, Pedro, when they were together at the FARC guerrilla camp
in Colombia. Now it stretched below where she lay absorbing
the sun. The green grass, nourished by the snowmelt and spring
rain, covered the slopes. The canyon formed an oversized,
downward-sloping arch. Patches of snow lingered to her right at
the head of the canyon and high up on Wolf Mountain. Down
below her, the large main barn appeared like a miniature toy
building set onto the landscape. Appearing even smaller, higher
up in the canyon between the large barn and Wolf Mountain,
was the house, and behind it sat a less formidable barn.
Only feet below her, in a small, shallow hollow, shielded
from the western sun, a tenuous, glistening patch of crystalline
pink snow clung to its past winter’s cold—Heather’s “water-
melon snow,” and finally her “blood snow.” Snow was a novelty
for Cherry, something she had never seen before but had only
heard about from Jim and Pedro. A red snow algae, Chlamy-
domonas, a scientific name Cherry had learned from Jim,
bloomed in the spring sun, transforming pristine white drifts
into patches of delicate pink and red as ice crystals surrendered
to the warmth.
Across the canyon, No-Name Ridge, Jim’s somewhat ironic
label, stretched lower than her current perch. Bathed in the
southwestern sun, all patches of winter snow had been replaced
by blue bunchgrass, fragrant gray-green sage, and the yellow
blossoms of the balsamroot. Few trees survived on those hot,
sun-exposed slopes. With less direct sun on the canyon sides
below her, small Ponderosa pines swayed in the late morning
breeze. Though sheltered from the worst of the summer’s sun,
the trees still struggled. At the head of the canyon along the
flanks of Wolf Mountain, the story was different: Ponderosa
pines stood like sentinels, their thick trunks and green needles
thriving where the scorching summer sun could not reach them.
For them, the danger was not the environment; their future
depended on humans with saws.
Cherry looked up from the canyon into the cerulean-blue
sky. It was expansive. Like her childhood mountain home, but
so different from where she had spent much of her adult life in
the dense growth of the Colombian rainforest and the Amazon
basin. She looked to her left, where the canyon descended to
Beaver Creek. The creek and Beaver Creek Road were blocked
from her view, hidden by a mound of alluvial sand deposited
over the ages on the sides of Beaver Creek. A small smile crept
to her lips as she looked west to the high mountains of the still
snow-covered Cascades.
As Cherry soaked in the sun, her golden-bronze skin glowed
against her inky-black hair, nearly cascading to her shoulders in
stark contrast to her previous cropped style. The sun’s warmth
enveloped her, seeping into her black T-shirt adorned with the
Wolf Canyon Ranch crest over her heart. Her dark shorts were
loose, reminiscent of the fatigues she once wore as a guerrilla
fighter, and she felt almost exposed without the crossed
bandoliers, which had both accentuated her figure and served as
a warning to those who dared approach to close. Is this a new
me? Or am I merely mirroring my new surroundings? she
wondered.
Since arriving, she had seen many photos of Heather, Jim’s
partner, who had been murdered here by Jim’s nemesis, Najma.
Cherry sometimes imagined that Jim would take her as his new
partner. It was an impossible dream that the steely-blue-eyed
man would want her. Still, she allowed her imagination to
kindle a hope that it could be so. If my life has changed as much as
it has, why could this not happen?
Heather had long blonde-brown hair, and in the photos, she
always smiled, looking tall, fresh, and free in T-shirts and shorts.
Cherry, by letting her hair grow and wearing the cotton T’s, as
she had learned to call them, adopted what she imagined Jim
liked in Heather. Jim had found Heather physically attractive,
but that was only a small part of their attraction to each
other. Underneath, Cherry understood Jim cared for her—the
untamed guerilla—but not in the way she wanted, not in the
same way he had been attracted to Heather.
I have a life that I never imagined I would have. Jim would make it
complete, she thought.
She brushed back her hair with a swipe of her hand. Her
nearly black eyes grew tight as she knew that her desires for
the tall American would never be fulfilled. Then she slid back
to the beauty that surrounded her, the friends she had made,
even the Old Man of the Woods, Tom Shuskin, and especially
Lola.
It is good that Jim, too, has been a friend to me, and he is a better
one than I ever thought I would have.
A small wisp of cotton-white appeared on the horizon. She
caressed a yellow balsam flower and watched an ant struggling
with a heavy load as it negotiated its way to its home. Her
thoughts returned to how lucky she was to be sitting on this
ridge. She had a home.
It was nearly lunchtime when she stood. It was an easy walk
down the ridge on a cow path as the canyon rose to meet the
trail. Sitting on the opposite side of the canyon, separated by a
gully from her, were her friends: the house where Lola, the
refugee Yaqui Indian, the shy old man of the woods, Shuskin,
the teenager Ben, the adopted Pedro, and his ever-present
companion Rosie would be getting ready for lunch on the deck
outside the ranch house. They were part of a family as eclectic as
could be imagined here in the western states.
Back in Colombia, makeshift families had been common,
guerrillas bonded by shared loss rather than blood. But even by
those standards, the Wolf Canyon household defied categoriza-
tion. The shy old man and former transient, Tom Shuskin, who’d
once lived in the woods and on the streets of Seattle, now had a
cabin to call home; Pedro, the seven-year-old rescued only a
year ago from a Mexican cartel and then adopted by Heather
and Jim, was quickly learning English while going to school and
tending the exotic ranch animals; Ben, the ranch teenager who’d
been unofficially adopted by an ex-ranch hand, Craig, who had
also been murdered by Najma, as had Heather; Lola, the Yaqui
Indian cartel maid, rescued trying to save Pedro; and Jim John-
son, PhD, military colonel, and deputy director of a classified
research facility.
After they finished lunch, the boy, the teenager, and the old man
decided to drive to the old western town of Winthrop to visit its
famous multi-flavored ice cream shop. As they were getting
ready to leave, the cell phone Jim had given Cherry chirped. She
smiled as she hoped it would be Jim calling.
‘Hola.’ Then a frown crossed her face as an unfamiliar voice
said, ‘Is this Cherry?’
‘Sí.’
‘Doctor Johnson, a while back, gave me this number and said
to call if I needed help. My name is Jonathan Wright. I’m calling
because I am having trouble with a newborn fallow deer. It’s not
nursing. I’m afraid I will lose her, and I’m at my wits’ end
worrying. She is very lethargic.’
‘New word this, this ‘lethargic’. What is meaning?’ asked
Cherry.
‘I know the word lethargic,’ piped in Pedro.
‘Ah,’ said Wright, ‘her movements are very slow. She has no
energy.’
‘Okay. You talk to Ben.’
‘What can I help you with?’ asked Ben.
‘I was hoping you could look at my baby fawn. I’m afraid
she is going to die. Do you think you could help? I don’t know
what I would do if she died.’
‘Sure,’ said Ben, feeling a surge of pride that he was being
asked. ‘Glad to. We were going to go out to Winthrop in a few
minutes. We’ll drive down to your place first.’
‘If you are sure it’s no trouble, I’d be very grateful.’
‘No problem. I hope we can help. See you in maybe forty
minutes or so.’
‘I hear,’ said Pedro. ‘It fun to help with baby. Can we take
Rosie?’
‘She is much happier staying here,’ said Cherry.
‘She doesn’t like cars,’ said Ben. ‘And the truck is far worse
to ride in, especially with the four of us squeezed in the seat.’
She’ll be better off staying here, like Cherry said.’
CHAPTER 2
I have been here nearly six months. Today, I go farther from the
ranch than I have since I arrived. Just a few miles, nothing more.
Yet, when I was in Colombia, I wanted to travel to new places. Here in
my new home, I cling to the place, taking in its sense of safety. It is a
new feeling I try to fully accept. Still, sometimes I cannot help but look
for hidden dangers. The guerrilla in me refuses to die; a caution that
lives in my marrow, a ghost I cannot exorcise.
The battered green Dodge pickup descended the gravel ranch
road toward Beaver Creek. Ben, the only licensed driver of the
four, planned to follow Beaver Creek Road east to the Methow
River and then down the main highway to Wright’s farm.
Ben’s elbow pushed into Cherry’s ribs as he downshifted on
the gravel ranch road. ‘Sorry, sorry.’
‘Está bien,’ Cherry replied, shifting closer to Pedro, who was
already pressed against Old Man Shuskin.
Shuskin didn’t complain. He was comfortable next to his
friend, Pedro, but he still tried to make himself smaller, his
shoulder pushed against the door.
Pedro reached over Shuskin and pushed the door lock down.
He giggled, ‘I no want you to fall out, Tom.’
Shuskin rarely smiled, but when he did, it revealed teeth that
Heather’s dentist friend in Twisp had volunteered to repair.
Having someone who worried about him made him feel good,
both back then and now with the boy.
As they neared the base of the road, where a small wooden
bridge crossed Wolf Canyon Creek, Pedro looked to the right.
He avoided looking left toward the glade—Jim and Heather’s
Secret Meadow—where his adopted mother, Heather, had been
murdered while he was forced to watch. They passed the over-
grown, knotty old apple tree planted years ago by homestead-
ers. The memory of the past winter flashed through Pedro’s
mind; he remembered his mother showing Tom and him the
rare, fragile ice apples clinging to the tree. The old man’s mouth
sagged as he remembered, too.
The old feed truck bounced along the Methow Valley Highway,
heading east to Wright’s ranch.
‘We save the fawn like we did Tinker,’ said Pedro.
‘Yep, we do what we can,’ answered Ben, ‘but a newborn
baby might be harder. It must have a will to survive. Tinker was
older when you rescued her from the cougar. Don’t get your
hopes up.’
Worry crossed Pedro’s young face. ‘We save her. I certain.’
‘That’s why the man called us,’ Ben replied, both hands on
the wheel, sitting up straight as he had been instructed in his
driver’s training. At seventeen, he’d had his license for only six
months, which he obtained the day Cherry arrived. ‘Cherry
knows about animals, too. And you’re good with the babies,
Pedro.’ Then he looked over at the silent Shuskin and said, ‘You
too, Tom. You’re gettin pretty good with the animals. We’ll be a
good team.’
Pedro smiled at that. Caring for the ranch animals had
become his anchor since their return from South America after
Heather’s death. Blue Suede Shoes, the baby llama, followed
him everywhere around the barn or when he was in her field.
Tinker, the rescued mule deer, slept outside his window. Even
Rosie O’ Twisp, who’d been Heather’s dog first, had transferred
her loyalty to the boy. Pedro needed them, and they needed the
boy. All orphans.
Cherry watched the valley roll past, the Methow River
glinting through the cottonwoods, the sage sprawling across the
benchland; the mountains rising on the west side like a protec-
tive wall. After the months at Wolf Canyon Ranch, she was still
getting used to this: casual drives into town instead of always
walking as in her past, this time down the valley to help with a
sick fawn, and then to get ice cream without fear of a govern-
ment ambush, debates about exotic animals she had never
encountered before: reindeer, llamas, alpacas, peacocks, and the
easy camaraderie of Ben, Lola, Shuskin, and Pedro, who were no
longer running to or from anything.
Is this really my home? I think I am happy being here. I want
to be, but … I was always nerviosa, agitada, restless in Colombia.
I thought it was the place, the country, but now I am beginning
to understand that it is an affliction. The travel books that Jim
brought me so that I could mentally explore the world magni-
fied the urge in me to be somewhere else. Among the many
books were a few travel novels: “Travels with Charley” by John
Steinbeck was exactly right when he said it was a disease “…the
virus of restlessness begins to take possession of a wayward
man …” Of course, in my case, a wayward woman. Perhaps it
was because I had never had a real home and would feel this
restless urge wherever I was, even here.
‘Cherry Bomb?’ Pedro whispered while touching her arm.
She turned and punched him on the shoulder.
‘No my name,’ she replied softly. ‘Who you hear that from?’
‘Here what from?’ asked Ben. The noisy old truck prevented
him from hearing their low conversation.
‘Nothing,’ said Cherry.
‘Doctor Maria called Dad, and I hear someone there call you
that in Colombia,’ Pedro said.
Cherry felt an immediate sadness at the mention of Dr. Maria
Dakine. Her close friend had been killed by a terrorist. And not
in Colombia, but here in the U.S.
‘Pedro,’ she said, ‘You no call me Cherry Bomb, little one. I …
I no like.’
‘I no little,’ he said through pursed lips.
‘Okay,’ she said, ‘I no call you little, and you do not call me
that.’ Cherry thought she should correct his English, his
Spanglish, but decided first she needed to perfect her own,
something she spent much time working on and was still
finding very difficult. Pedro, she reasoned, would automati-
cally absorb the correct usage in his school. And then there is
Ben and his weird western lingo, she thought. I hope Pedro does not
adapt that.
‘Sí, está bien,’ said Pedro. ‘But how you get that name, you
blow up somebody?’
‘What are you two palavering about?’
Cherry did not have a chance to answer before Ben slowed
the truck.
‘Uh, guys? What’s going on?’
Ahead, flashing lights strobed blue across the pavement. Two
sheriff’s vehicles, an ambulance, and a few civilian cars were
pulled off on the shoulder near the river access across from
Bedders Orchards.
‘Accidente,’ Pedro said, leaning forward, looking ahead. ‘Sí,
posiblemente.’
‘Maybe,’ said Ben. ‘Should we pull over … I mean, should we
stop?’
‘Someone might need help,’ Pedro said.
Ben pulled the truck to a stop behind the sheriff’s car.
‘Maybe I should… I mean, we should ask if they need
anything?’ It came out as a question. Ben looked at Cherry.
‘Right?’
‘Pedro, you stay in the truck,’ Cherry said, climbing out
behind Ben.
‘But …’
‘Stay with Grankin.’ Her tone left no room for argument.
Shuskin pressed himself further into the corner of the cab,
his lined face tight with old fears.
‘Why they scare you, Tom?’
The old man might not have answered anyone else, but it
was Pedro who was asking.
‘Bad things happen to me when cops are around.’
‘Is okay, Tom. I protect you.’
Ben and Cherry approached the scene side by side. Ben
stretched his gangly legs into what he hoped looked like a man’s
confident stride. Cherry moved with the quiet caution of
someone who had learned to approach authority carefully. She
understood intuitively that it was good to have Ben with her,
someone who belonged.
Cherry slowed and looked behind her; an ambulance
blocked the single-lane turnout. She scanned the scene, counting
two sheriff’s cars, their old truck parked behind, one ambulance,
and a white van marked ‘Okanogan Medical Examiner.’ Cherry
walked faster to catch up with Ben.
A tall, lanky man stood at the river’s edge just below the
road embankment. Ben immediately recognized him as the sher-
iff. The Methow River ran strong here, fed by the early spring
snowmelt, curving past Bedders Orchards on the far bank. A
body lay in the shallows of the gravel bank.
Cherry caught a scent as Ben slowed; it made her stomach
tighten with old, familiar memories: the faint smell of death,
mixed with the spring breeze and the sage.
They stopped walking; Ben’s face went pale.
‘Oh, shit,’ he whispered. ‘Is that … is that a person?’
CHAPTER 3
I have found sanctuary here in this hidden corner of Washington
State. Wolf Canyon Ranch cradles me among its creatures: the
llamas with their curious eyes; Tinker, the mule deer fawn, who
nuzzles my palm for treats; and Junior Junior the peacock, who
announces my presence with indignant calls. After years of violence, I
breathe freely here. I have discovered friendship. Safety. Dreams of him,
who has awakened possibilities I never permitted myself to imagine.
But now those illusions are shattered. This new world holds more than
my small circle. It harbors secrets. For the first time, I am finding that
others exist in this valley, as does death.
Sheriff Brennan looked up from the riverbank, irritation crossing
his face when he saw them. ‘This is a crime scene. You need to
move along.’
‘We … we were just driving past,’ stammered Ben. ‘Is every-
thing okay? … can we help out, or …?’
‘No. Head on to wherever you’re going.’ Brennan’s voice
was firm but not unkind. He recognized Ben; most people in the
valley knew each other, and this young man worked for Colonel
Johnson. ‘Nothing for you to see here, son.’
His deputy, Rick, was taking photographs from different
angles at Sheriff Brennan’s request. He was trying to avoid
getting his boots in the water, while at the same time, he
avoided walking on the shore closest to where the body lay.
Another man, older, the county medical examiner by his jacket,
stood on the bank, shaking his head. Two others from the coun-
ty’s forensic lab were on their hands and knees inspecting the
ground next to the bank, with one taking photos and the other
making casts of shoe and boot prints.
‘Okay, deputy, I think you have enough photos from the
bank,’ said the ME, Dr. Patterson. ‘I need to inspect the body, get
my guys to take photos, and then get her over to the bank as
soon as they are finished with the footprint casts,’ pointing at
the two men. ‘They have my photos, so if you want more for the
sheriff, now is the time.’
Rick scowled, not wanting to wade in the icy water.
‘The medical examiner said, ‘All right, deputy, go downriver
a few yards, stay there and out of the way until my guys get
their photos, and I need to examine her in situ as well. Then
wade in, get your feet wet, and help us move her to the bank.’
‘Examiner in what?’ asked Rick confused by what the ME
wanted to examine her in.’
The medical examiner didn’t answer and walked into the
shallow water toward the body.
Cherry looked at the raging river, separated from the bank
by several yards of rounded rocks nestled in sand where the
river had run wild during the spring thaw and had now
retreated.
The medical examiner knelt in the water beside the body. ‘It’s
been here for a long spell,’ he said, gently turning her wrist.
‘Past rigor mortis, in this cold water, but something isn’t right,’
he mumbled. ‘Lividity isn’t right.’ Then he said louder, with
more authority, ‘She might not have died in the river.’ He
glanced at the current, then back at the body. ‘Hard to tell.
Perhaps there was a surge in the water, and she just washed up
here. Can’t see it, though. I’ll get her temperature when we get
her on shore. The river water is forty-seven degrees,’ he said into
a small recorder. ‘Difficult to account for the time of death with
this cold water and not knowing if she was in the water and
washed up here or not. Whenever you think you’re ready,
deputy, you might get your feet wet and come over here to
help.’
Sheriff Brennan noticed Cherry standing slightly behind Ben,
her eyes fixed not on the body but on the river itself, studying
the current, the distance from Bedders Orchards, with an inten-
sity that made him uncomfortable.
‘Miss, this really isn’t a place for sightseeing. You and Ben
best move along like I said.’
‘Why here?’ Cherry’s voice was quiet, almost to herself.
‘Excuse me?’ Brennan asked.
She looked over, realizing she had spoken loud enough for
the sheriff to hear. ‘Okay, we go now.’
‘Wait,’ Brennan’s cop instincts kicked in. ‘Why here, what?
You said something?’
Cherry hesitated. Ben shifted nervously beside her, clearly
wanting to retreat to the truck but not wanting to abandon her.
‘The river,’ Cherry said, pausing while thinking it through.
‘It is the wrong place to kill yourself,’ she continued, nodding,
affirming her thoughts. ‘The river is not deep here. It is very
shallow for twenty or thirty feet from the edge. Someone who
wants to drown; they go to deeper water.’ Cherry was trying
hard to say things correctly. ‘And if someone put her here …’
Cherry shook her head. ‘Why here, where she could be seen
from the orchard?’
‘Put her here?’ Brennan’s voice sharpened. ‘Who said
anything about her being put here?’ Brennan exchanged a
glance with his deputy. ‘Maybe she fell in right here. Or maybe
further up. Or knocked her head.’
But Cherry’s tone suggested she wasn’t buying it. She
sensed, but did not know why, that something did not add up.
She continued her thought, speaking softly, ‘Why this side of the
river? Maybe the woman is not from the orchard.’
‘Possible.’ The sheriff’s voice had an edge, part curiosity, part
suspicion. ‘What makes you think that?’
‘I do not know. It is my feeling.’ And then she continued, ‘too
shallow along this edge. Maybe she comes down to the river and
slips or trips. Could be, but it does not feel right.’
She looked toward the truck. She could see Shuskin hunched
down, trying to be invisible. Pedro’s face pressed against the
window, watching.
Cherry turned back and met his brown eyes with her nearly
black eyes. The medical examiner said, ‘It’s plausible the body
was moved here. If she did not drown, … it’s probable she was
put here.’
‘Question is why here? This is close to the road and can be
seen from the Orchard side. Why not further down, where she
would not be found for days, or maybe weeks? Unless someone
wants her found?’
‘It’s easy to get here because it’s close to the road,’ suggested
Rick while he sloshed his way toward the medical examiner and
the body.
The sheriff’s jaw tightened. This dark-skinned woman was
creating a fairy tale a mile a minute. He was about to order them
off when Ben found his voice.
Ben glanced at Cherry, then back at the sheriff. ‘We’ll just …
we’ll just go.’
‘Sheriff, she has a tattoo,’ said the medical examiner,
squinting at her arm. ‘It’s under her watch, and I don’t under-
stand what it says. And on the other arm, she has a tan line. A
missing band or bracelet, maybe? Could be nothing, but it looks …