soon as Mom is safely ensconced in my guest bedroom, I hurry through my still-open front door, fueled by adrenaline and a recklessness that feels foreign and exhilarating and nauseating all at the same time. I move to Gracie’s door, lift my fist, and give it three swift knocks. She opens it almost immediately, but she doesn’t say hello. Just stares, her big brown eyes wide and luminous. “What do you want?” she asks. I brace both hands above the door jamb and lean close, close enough to catch the scent of her hair and see the freckles dotting her cheeks. “I just wanted to make a couple of
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