Rory disappears upstairs and comes back in her sweats, her curls piled on top of her head and a paper bag tucked under her arm. “Therapy dog,” she says, dropping Maggie in my lap. She plonks down next to me, tosses the chips on the coffee table, and with a stolen glance over her shoulder, she upturns the contents of the bag between us. “Don’t tell anyone, but I keep all the good stuff upstairs,” she whispers, letting the candy fall through her fingers like it’s a pile of gold coins. She then reminds me that I’ve already watched this football game twice this week, and turns the channel to some
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