Rafe crouches next to me, brings his fist up to his mouth, and blows. With a flick of his wrist, a pair of dice scatters across the lid, rolling off the curve and falling into the gap between the coffin and the soil. “For my Lady Luck,” he rasps, running a hand through his hair. “Good luck up there, Mama.” Gabe sinks to his knees too. Instead of throwing in the rose in his hand, he leans over, plants his lips to the wood and mutters something long and heartfelt. It’s the most I’ve seen him speak in years. The flowers and the cards stop falling, and eyes turn to me, expectantly. Slowly, I dig
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