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For anyone who has ever dreamed of finding a body in the library
THE SLOW SUMMER TWILIGHT WAS FALLING AND THE FIREFLIES ROSE out of the grass and bobbed around as pockets of people made their way to the party,
The air was thick with the fecund smell of early dropping leaves and the fragrant decay of layers of undergrowth. Everything was alive or vocal in its demise.
The moon was thin like a hook, and the owls were calling. The smell of fall leaves blew on the wind and Hayes was dead.
