Catching some air on Spadina Avenue

Caucasian woman, mid 20s, with fire engine-red hair, dressed in a blue wool coat and purple scarf, sitting outside on the cement step of a storefront.

Cell, Stephen King (Pocket Star)

About 12 pages in:

The Duck Boat hit the ice cream truck broadside and flipped it like a child's toy. It landed on its side with its own amplification system still tinkling out the Sesame Street theme music and went skidding back toward the Common, shooting up friction-generated bursts of sparks.

It was when she was just a child, and she swears he loved it. It was the influence of television, after all. It looked safe and certainly soft, and, really, he couldn't wait for her to do it again and again, balling him up in her palm, sending him in a spinning hydroplane across the waxed linoleum, rotating past the food bowl, the kitchen counter, the entrance to the living room where her mother sat watching The Price Is Right, plummeting poodle head over poodle bum into a stunning tower of toilet paper.