and a mark she doesn’t recognize: little holes for eyes and something like a face scratched around it, slash of mouth like someone has taken the metal corner of a ruler to the table and dragged it across. She moves her thumb over this image, tries to recall Irene carving it into the wood and can’t, then leans closer, picks out what appear to be words scratched in the tiniest text to ring the face in several widening circles: in time in time in time in time in time in time in time in time. Jagged shape of each t, scored sharply. What a strange game one of them must have been playing, though
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