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eye. Derek Whitmore sat perfectly still in the third row. His head was down, his hands were in his lap.
He looked like a man who had been placed on a stage without his consent. 10 seconds of silence. The windchime swayed but didn’t ring.
A bird crossed the sky above the pergola. I squeezed Marcus’s hand. He squeezed back.
He gave me a nod so small that continue reading …
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