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not everyone circles the same sun.
Monday clutched her desk as if she thought it would be ripped from under her. Her braids were fuzzier than I’d ever seen them, the ends unraveling and dry
“But . . . where’s August? You just gonna leave him?”
She froze as if I’d said something terrifying and stuttered through an answer.
“He’s . . . sick. Mom . . . kept him home.”
She froze as if I’d said something terrifying and stuttered through an answer.
“He’s . . . sick. Mom . . . kept him home.”
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