I have tried taking a little blood from various donors. Books were always sliding and slipping, clumsy objects to hold. The doctor sensed that his bolt had gone wrong, but he could not tell how or why. She was watching him intently. I never could. I saw the motor dashed to pieces against the wall, and I saw him pitched on his head into the road. Maybe half a year, counting this summer. She could feel his breath on her skin, every hair on her arms and neck raised in response.
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