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we died first in small ways: where the tramping of our boots morphed into a hollow sound, curling beneath our ribs, unlucky, undeserved, until the darkness came and the blood dried-- sprayed across faces and hands, mouths painted red --beneath our nails, beneath our eyes, underneath our very skin,(more)
"It's been haunting me," says Alexi, scribbling dark charcoal outlines down the side of the sketchpad. "For years. This dream." Her hands are shaking and her face is pale.

Her mother is bent over paperwork at her desk, and does not look up. "The one with the door?(more)