“So I have a question,” I said. “No, you cannot be the godmother.” “Shush. Of course, I’ll be the godmother.” I began parting her hair into neat sections, getting ready to Dutch-braid it. “I wanted to ask if you sent me a broccoli cake for my twentieth birthday.” Her eyebrows shot up. “That’s random.” “But true…?” I peered into her face, brushing each piece of her hair with my fingers. “No. The only thing I wanted to send you over the years was anthrax, and I was too scared to get caught.” Dylan shook her head. “Not me. Sorry, Dot.” “I’m asking because you’re the only person who knew about my
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