“What is that?” cried Stevie. She looked up to see him staring—not at her, at the tablecloth. And not just Stevie: all of them, gaping as Amanda glanced down to see the stain spreading across the white cloth, the color of red wine or beet juice. But not blood, she thought, pushing her chair back as she stumbled to her feet, not blood, how could it be blood?
What is crappening?
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