Abby was the one screaming. Still in her bed, she sat stick-straight and terrified, surrounded by a veritable lake of vomit. It was everywhere—Abby’s bed, the floor, the desk, dripping off her stack of precious Lisa Frank folders: glossy unicorns and colorful bears swimming in sickness. Charlie stood in the corner of the room, her chin against her chest, her hands at her sides. Unmoving. Staring through a blank set of eyes at what she’d done.
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