A story is like life, like a meal – get to the end.

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We thought that we’d moved well out of Bee’s reach, but she was impressed when she heard about our new house-sit across the bay.

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“You’ve probably already guessed.” Pagan stares across the small corner table.

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Elena doesn’t get out much. She’s at her chair all day every day, working the old black Singer, the thrum of her balance wheel her company.

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The girl in the kiss breaks away to peer over his denim shoulder.

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Hazel tips her brown paper bag and ten green grenades roll across the kitchen counter.

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It’s humid as hell, thunderstorm weather. K’s shouting lunch.

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