usual. When I get out, wearing flannel pyjama bottoms and a towel around my neck, Baz is by his bed, unpacking his schoolbag. His head whips up, and his face is all twisted. He looks like I’ve already laid into him. “What are you doing?” he snarls through his teeth. “Taking a shower. What’s your problem?” “You,” he says, throwing his bag down. “Always you.” “Hello, Baz. Welcome back.” He looks away from me. “Where’s your necklace?” His voice is low. “My what?” I can’t see his whole face, but it looks like his jaw is working. “Your cross.” My hand flies to my throat and then to the cuts on my
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