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“You’re like a rotisserie chicken, or the spin cycle on a washing machine. You thrash around, throw off the covers . . .”
But this week—being here with you, and the mice, and the crumbling ceilings, even with a broken ankle—has been the best week of my adult life.” “You’re concussed,” Tilly said. “You’re not medically cleared to make ridiculous pronouncements like that.”