Rebecca Trotter

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“Anyone want to tell me what’s going on?” “We don’t know,” Willa said. “I led a school trip through here at two. The rock was still there then. I came through a little after five thirty and this was there.” She pointed at the white object wedged in the display. “I stared at it stupidly for a couple of minutes and then I called Bud. He called you. Here we are.”
When the Moon Hits Your Eye
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