But Kristin is pressing herself against the metal, clasping her brother’s hands, touching his face, as Simon strains forward to kiss her cheek, press his forehead to hers. Kristin is crying. Simon’s eyes are glistening. Their matched coloring makes them hard to distinguish from each other. They really are one flesh, Emma thinks numbly. Two people connected at the most basic level, through blood and breath shared in the womb, skin and muscle and hair and nails formed from the same material. But the division was imperfect: Instead of two mirror images, they are one being split apart—Kristin the
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