He hit the ground hard, already dead, the front of his shirt on fire.

There was blood on the front of his shirt too.

He had a lot of shirts and they were all the same.

The front of the white man's shirt was covered with blood.

He pulled his head free of the shirt and looked at me, waiting.

He could see the way it met the opening of her shirt.

She could feel it even through the material of his shirt.

A hand caught the back of his shirt, and he knew she was right there with him.

The price of the shirt came up in the conversation, and why not?

He pulled me off the floor as if I was one of his old shirts.