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These three children own the summer.
A poor thing, possibly, but mine own: this is the only story in the world that nobody but me will ever be able to tell.
In ways too dark and crucial to be called metaphorical, I never left that wood.
She was the summertime cousin out of storybooks, the one you taught to swim at some midge-humming lake and pestered with tadpoles down her swimsuit,
the unmissable off-chance of magic.
