“Oh good. He was leaning against a window frame, his hat in his hand. She set her fingers in the hair and tugged, drawing him to a sitting posture and stooping so that her eyes would be on the level with his when he awoke. She fled. Through fire and water, through penury and pestilence, your hand will always be on his shoulder. She looked at the white ankle socks on her feet and was reminded simultaneously of her pajama outfit and the suitcase that still lay underneath the bed.
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