“Snowflakes,” she repeats a little louder, then flicks a hand in my direction without meeting my eyes. “Shake it.” I glance from her to the jar and back again before I pick it up to give it a shake. The ring clanks against the glass and the finger taps the steel lid. When I set it back down, tiny, glittering snowflakes swirl around the severed digit before they slowly fall toward the base of the jar. “A snow globe,” I say slowly, waiting for her to look up, which she doesn’t do. “You made a severed finger into a feckin’ snow globe.” “It was almost Christmas,” she says with a shrug. “It felt …
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