“Do you know what I think every morning,” she said. “I wake up and I look over at your side, and there you are, snoring away. And you make these sounds in your sleep, not like you aren’t feeling well—but sleep sounds, like you’re telling me about your sleep. And you search for my body in the night, you always keep one body part on me.” She smiled again, turned down her gaze, looking almost shy. “And when I hear that sound, and feel that hand or leg,” she said. “Then it’s like every question inside me dies. “The state of the world? “Your leg. “My anxiety? “Your leg. “The wars and hatred? “Your
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