You speak as one injured—as though I had been the one to take your name—as though you had been the one to make sacrifices. My foster mother, Janine, wasn’t much fatter. Though they do, in secret, I believe. Perhaps it was just as well there was no inherited memory. He climbed on top of her, pressing her into the couch cushions, the gown billowing around them like a cotton candy parachute. They agreed to lend her their hold-all and a large, formless bag which they called the communal trunk.
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