“W-what are you going to do to me?” was the first question she asked after I had her in my car. It was a ten-year-old piece of junk, held together by rust molecules holding hands. But it was mine, and it always took me where I needed to go. I didn’t immediately answer. Instead, I asked a question of my own. “What is your name?” “Rain,” she replied without hesitation. I looked across the car at her, dubious, while holding a handful of blood-soaked napkins to my face. “Rain? Your name is Rain?” “Yes.” I snorted, turning my eyes back on the road. “Wow. Okay. What, are your parents hippies or
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