There was this woman. Her name was Ginger. She liked to walk in the rain. It didn’t matter how hard the downpour or how miserable the drizzle, step after step, she walked, occasionally glancing up to catch a few drops on her face. People would line up on the sides of the street under the shelter of awnings and deep doorways and call out to her, “Get out the rain! It’s bad for you!” But she kept on walking. Over time, her hair lost its colour, draped to her shoulders and finally washed away. Her posture slouched. She began to lose weight. The people under the shelter of their umbrellas were concerned about how unwell she looked, how soggy in the rain, and they called out to her, “Get out of the rain! You should go some place warm, like Florida. Some place you can lay out and bake in the sun.” But she ignored them and kept on walking, slouching a little more every day, pausing now and again to squint at the deep gray clouds. Then one day, when the Ginger-bread Woman had walked too long in the rain, she dissolved entirely away.


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