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worked.
Until I grew up.
When I was sixteen, my mother sat me down after one of his visits.
“He’s a good man in a bad world,” she told me.
“But?” I asked, because there was always a but.
“But that world kills, Avery. I don’t want you near it.”
“He wouldn’t hurt me.”
“No,” she said firmly. “He’d cut off his own arm before letting anyone hurt you. But his world continue reading …
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