When Georgia was a little girl, she wore a red peacoat with brass buttons that always got a few compliments whenever she and her mother would take the walk from their apartment to the local shops.
“Well, if it isn’t little Hood,” Tony would say and he’d slide an extra inch of salami into her sandwich.
“Well, if it isn’t little Hood,” Jacques would say and uncurl a handful of petit fours from his pudgy chef’s palm.
“Morning, Red.” Sandy would smile indulgently behind her Daily Post and sometimes Georgia found an extra few lemon drops from the candy shop in her bag.
It wasn’t until she was fully grown that Georgia took a stroll into the nearby woods with her familiar rose-dyed uniform.
“I’ve met so many friends,” Georgia said, treading carefully over the foliage. She raised her head and let autumn fall with a grace that stole her breath away. Let the people in her memories slip through her fingers. “I think I’m brave enough to greet you now, Mr. Wolf.”