Bloor Line, minus Dad

Caucasian girl, 12 or 13, with long, curly hair tied back in a tight ponytail. Her brow is wide and high, her eyebrows soft and fuzzy. The bridge of her broad nose bears summer's last glow. I've been watching her read for almost a year, two-three times a week, always in the company of her gentle father who, too, reads at her side, protective, close enough that I've never been able to see the cover of her books let alone which page she reads. This school year, she's a big girl. Solo. I'm cautious. I don't want to be the one to betray the reserve of safety and comfort as she rides transit alone, en route to her new big girl world.

Artemis Fowl: The Opal Deception, Eoin Colfer (Talk Miramax Books)

Page 219:

Mulch slathered his fingers with spittle and spread it around the crown of his head, reaching as far back and the manacles would allow.

She stands at the kitchen counter, chewing slowly, eyes drooping, the toasted bagel cradled in the palm of her hand lying limp at the edge of the sink. Her father gets up early every Saturday, off to market for a dozen fresh from the wood oven, their weekly treat. He favours peanut butter while she slathers hers in cream cheese and red pepper jelly.

She watches her father run the push mower back and forth over a patch of weeds then stop to hike his pants. She hooks a stray hair from her mouth, checks the clock to see that she's not late for her first day of school, swallows heavy, then takes another bite, watching her father descend into the deep ditch.