3. Lucia was in her garage, arranging green balls in a refrigerator box sliced in half. As far as J. could see, she was piling them from smallest to largest. From the veil of perspiration clinging to her forehead, he could tell that the task taxed all the compact set of skills she housed in her small body. When J. approached she stopped.
“Crappy,” she said, turning to him and then to the balls. “A crappy job.” She spoke with a pronounced Roman accent.
“Why not stop?” J. asked, still in the door frame, but now leaning on her father's Audi.
“Why?” she asked, facing him, her expression vexed but curious. “What else is there to do? What do you want to do?”