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Instinct kicked in and I grabbed his forearm, thinking weapon, thinking contraband, thinking risk. He winced.
“It’s not that,” he said. “It’s just, I kept it close. All these years, I kept it close.”
His fingers shook as he pulled a small leather pouch from a cord around his neck. It was dark with age and sweat, the edges cracked, the stitching nearly continue reading …
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