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On the second night, I sat beside Violet’s incubator with my hand through the port, one finger resting against her foot. Her skin was warm now. Pinker. Stronger.
Quincy stood beside me on a stool.
“She’s tiny,” he whispered.
“You were tiny once too.”
“I don’t remember.”
“That’s probably for the best. Babies are very dramatic.”
He looked at me, unsure if continue reading …
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