“Diago?” My heart stops at the female voice cutting through the low hubbub, from off to my left below. I turn slowly. Disbelievingly. Scan the milling crowd. I spot them. Rows back but pushing their way forward and through. Dark, curly hair and sun-kissed skin. The younger’s long hair tousled, wild in a way it never is. The older’s is the same, just the way I remember it. Their deep brown eyes, mirrors of each other’s and my own, on me. I don’t move. Don’t breathe. I cannot speak. And then I am scrambling down the stairs as fast as my broken legs will take me toward my mother and sister. The
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