A blue bird feather, of a kind that had no business growing on a human, was conspicuously sprouting from Tricia's arm. It was something that had never existed in my past memories.
In my memories, Gibbs had once mentioned to me that Tricia had passed away from a severe illness; he had never said a word about feathers growing on her body.
"Your arm! What happened to this?" I grabbed Tricia's frail arm. It felt as limp and strengthless as a piece of cotton, devoid of all color, as white as paper.
Chapter 39