“I know that story,” he said slowly, “because my wife told it to my daughter when she was six.” He took off his glasses and placed them on the table. “A story that she heard from her father.” A story that she heard from her father. Piketo was a story I’d made up, the name borrowed from a guy I’d once worked with, the tale created with the purpose of making sure my daughter understood the repercussions that could happen if she ever told people about things that were better kept private. Things like the videos I used to film of her friends at her sleepovers. Things like the special showers I
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