“The roses…there are…are those needles?” I say, my voice not sounding like my own. “There’s something metal coming out of the thorns. All of them.” Mr. Gordon’s breath comes out in a steady stream as he leans in, curses mingling in the rush of air. He’s looking at the arrangement as if it’s suddenly sprouted tentacles. “I…yes. They are. I don’t know how it’s possible, but those are needles.” He runs a hand though his few remaining wisps of hair. I pick up one long stem very carefully. When I hold it up to the light I can see how carefully the tiny sharp metal pieces have been inserted through
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