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It got worse after that, not better. It got worse and kept getting worse until we didn’t even have the camps. It was just us, trudging across a land that held pockets of sanity and insanity both. Kindness and cruelty, sometimes from the same source. My father carried a knife in his boot and took turns with my mother holding on to a small revolver. We were as likely to come across burned and half-buried bodies in a ditch as a farmer and his sons armed with shotguns. Once, a grinning man invited us into his house and tried to rape my mother. My father had a scar across his left arm after that
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My name is Borne. —My name is not Borne. That is just something Rachel calls me. It means to carry something you don’t want to carry. My name is not-Borne and I came here on Mord’s body, no matter what Rachel says. —I did not come here on Mord’s body. —I became entangled in Mord’s fur. (Who entangled me?) —Where did I come from before that? My name is not-Borne. I did not come here on Mord’s body, but I am human. —I am not human. I am not human. I am not human. —Rachel says I am a “he.” Am I he, she, or both or neither? —I am a person. Not nice. Not nice. Beautiful. I came here from a distant
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