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“Okay, I’ve got you.”

***

Twenty-two years went by, the way a long shift does: slow in the middle, gone by the end.

I packed lunches with the wrong kind of bread. I braided their hair so badly that, before school, Mrs. Hunter would fix it on the porch.

“You’re going to give those girls complexes, Noah,” my neighbor said once, pulling a brush through Ava’s continue reading …