I was twenty-five years old and a nobody. A nobody who had been kicked out of one foster home for something I shouldn't have done. A nobody who had married another nobody and who supported a child who carried my name but didn't have a drop of my blood. Lucy Martin was blonde and lovely and she had a build of those girls you see in men's magazines. Long hair and smokey eyes, breasts that were big and full and ripe, a stomach that was almost nothing at all and hips made your blood pressure keep above normal when she moved. "You're big," she had told me that night. "You're the biggest man here." Well, I am big, and looking down at her from my six feet six she seemed about the size of a dwarf, hardly taller than my former wife Emily had been.