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Riding Tiny The boys had been to the Bayon ranch again. Will limped extravagantly into the kitchen, his calves not quite bowed beneath their tight denim skin. “I want to go, too, next time,” Amy said, like she always did. “Will, you been out at the Bayons' again?” their mother said. “Will gets to do everything he wants and I never get to do anything,” Amy said. “Why are you limping?” their mother said. “He's probably pretending.” “I'm all right, Ma.” Will winked with what he probably thought was rakishness at anybody in the general vicinity. “You know, war wounds. The bull was a real hardass today—whoops! sorry Ma—a real tough case. But there's not a bull on that ranch that can whip Will Curry.” He snatched the milk carton out of the refrigerator and yanked Amy's ponytail and limped on into the den. They heard the television crackle to life. Football. Now PBR. “How come Will and the boys always get to go to the Bayons' and I never get to go? I'm almost thirteen,” Amy said. “Because Will and the boys are boys,” her mother said. “I don't like the idea of you hanging around all those older boys.” “I'm not five.” “Go wash your hands and set the table.”
***
“Bastard.” Will spat into the dust. “Will you just look at that bastard?” He scuffed the glob of saliva into the orange dust with the toe of his boot until it became a deep dark stain on the barn floor. “I could take him.” Joe Lincoln leaned forward against the fence, tipped his Stetson down low over his eyes. “I will, too. Already gave Bayon my twenty bucks.” “That bastard doesn't scare me.” Will leaned too. Joe pulled a plug from his jeans pocket and handed it around—“chaw?”—bit off a piece for himself and put it back. They chewed together, loud and vigorous. Occasionally they spit the yellow juice into the dust. In the pen, the bull paid them no attention. He was a Brangus crossbred, two years old, old enough to carry the brutal strength of full maturity, hot-blooded enough to be mean in the ring. He stood still, bursting out of the small pen in his enormity, his nose almost touching the wood in front of him, his tail bumping the back post every time it swished. His one thousand seven hundred pound mass quivered tensely; the wooden beams seemed like toothpicks. “Bastard,” Will said. At the end of the barn, beneath the rickety bleachers, Amy crouched in the shadows and watched her brother and his friend shoot yellow streams of tobacco juice arching into the dust. She grinned. Will would get it if their mother knew he was chewing tobacco and cussing, and on a Sunday. But of course she wouldn't tell. Then Will might bring her next week and she wouldn't have to sneak along. The Bayons always hosted open rodeo on Sundays. Twenty dollars a ride and a signed waiver, and you could ride as many times as you wanted until your ribs groaned, your loins ached, or something went snap—at least, that's how Will told it, surrounded by his fan club of younger boys after church. A whitewashed sign over the front gate advertised: “Ride on the ranch where PBR champion Mike Bayon grew up!” The sign was two years old now and little wisps of paint had started to curl away from the wood. Boys flocked in from Cole Camp, Easton, Sedalia, all over, scrawny yet tautly buff like wet rope, all swearing like a construction crew and chewing “backer,” sporting Stetsons and tight jeans, and chaps for those who had them. They crammed into the cool musty shadows of the bullring in the old barn, dragged crumpled twenty-dollar bills out of back pockets glued to their asses, and whooped as they watched each other fleetingly balance on the raging animal before being tossed aside like a cockroach in the wake of a brawny broom. Her brother had been going with Joe to the Bayon place since it opened, first to watch the older boys—men, Will had called them in envious respect, even though it was silly because they were only a couple years older than him and went to the same high school—ride. He himself had been riding not quite two months, since his eighteenth birthday in June, when he could sign the waiver. She would be thirteen in just one and three quarter months, October 23. Her legs were cramping up; she sat on her haunches, with her back uncomfortably straight so that her eyes were directly aligned with a gap in the bleachers. Her spine felt stretched. It was hot and the dust on the floor wafted into her eyes and nose and made both water. She scrambled out. “Will!” They turned and saw her coming. The others, surprised, looked at Will. Will's mouth was a pale straight line. Joe slanted a smile at her and she felt herself blush. She turned her head slightly so that she presented more of her profile, which was prettier—she had concluded after long hours of studying her bedroom mirror—than a frontal view of her face. She was glad that she had worn her aquamarine earrings. “How the hell did you get here?” “I hitched a ride with Mr. Kemp,” she said. “He was going up to Cole Camp to fix somebody's tractor and he dropped me off at the crossroads. And then I walked to Jenny's house and she let me borrow her bike. And then I rode it out here. All four miles.” “Well, you can turn that capable butt of yours right around, Amy, and go those four miles plus the three from the crossroads back home, by yourself,” Will said. “You know Mom doesn't let you come out here.” “Will ride yet?” Amy asked Joe. “Not yet, but yeah, Will's gonna ride.” Joe grinned. “He's signed up to go first, before me and Luke Jones.” “Yeah.” Luke Jones, a tall thatch-headed boy near the water cooler laughed. “Just hope Will doesn't take all the fight out of him.” “Plenty of fight in that bull,” Will said. He looked pleased. “There will be plenty left whether I ride or not.” She spun around triumphantly. “Mom said you couldn't ride. Not with that limp you came home with last Sunday. She said you couldn't ride until next week at least. Serves you right for always pretending to be hurt when you're not really.” “Jesus,” Will said. “It's Sunday, Will,” Joe said. “Christ,” Will said. “You tattler.” “Temper,” Joe said. “That's right, Will, I am a tattler,” she said, wrapping her skinny freckled arms across the checkered cloth over the slight plateau of her chest. She had filched the shirt from Will's room and was now acutely glad. “I don't care what you call me. And I'll tell Mom you're chewing tobacco and cussing. She won't ever let you come out here again.” Joe whistled and she glanced sideways quickly. He winked, a slow wink. She uncrossed her arms. She didn't want to draw attention to the peanut-sized swells of flesh that still fit in a trainer. “Let me stay,” she said. “Will, you always promise that you'll take me sometime and you never do and I got here by myself, all four miles.” “You gonna play patty-cake with your little sister all day, or are you gonna ride that bastard like you said you weren't scared to?” Joe asked. “You aren't scared of that old bull over there, are you little girl?” “I'm not a little girl.” She looked at Tiny, quivering and heaving in the pen. The bull stilled and only his nostrils moved, flaring and shrinking. Ten feet away she could feel his energy, touching her skin through the heavy cotton of Will's shirt in two oscillating streams of breath—heavy now when the enormous nostrils dilated, softer when they contracted; heavy, soft, heavy, soft—hotter than the stifling August air of the barn. She shook her head vehemently. “I'm not scared.” Then throwing back her head, nonchalant: “What's his name?” “That wussy little guy? His name's Tiny.” “You lay off her,” Will said. “Looks like your little sister has more guts than you.” Will and Joe stared at one another, their rigidly relaxed bodies filling in the silence. Will's mouth was again a pale thin line. She fidgeted. Joe slumped even deeper into the fence and kicked up some dirt and crossed his boots at the ankle. “Aw stop being such a damn mother hen, Will, and let the kid stay.” “I'm not a kid.” “You don't cross this line,” Will told Amy, and drew it in the dust with the toe of his boot so that it cut her off fifteen feet from the chute and bull pen. She smiled radiantly and climbed into the bleachers and folded her hands in her lap. “If she's gonna ask a million questions, you're answering them,” her brother told Joe, “seeing as you're so keen on her.”
***
Rodeo began promptly at eleven o'clock . At ten-thirty the boys pulled on their chaps, buckling the straps and pulling them tight, then tighter, glancing sideways at one another, each mentally measuring the slender girth of the others' waists, thighs, calves in comparison to his own. They sucked in their bellies. Amy could tell that Will was complacent about his chaps from the way that he was smiling and glancing furtively at the other boys' scuffed up ones or bare jeans. He cleaned and massaged them often in the evenings, with the same care with which he'd rubbed oil into his baseball glove when they were little and she always had to be batter because Will wouldn't let anybody else touch his glove. The chaps were relatively new so that they had retained their bright turquoise color, the silvery fringes still clean—Amy thought privately that they looked girly—but he had broken them in so that they cleaved to his thighs, like on T.V. They were expensive. Their mother had pitched in a quarter of the cost, an early birthday present. Will had paid the rest with his earnings from working the grandstand at the state fair last summer, so he didn't have to dip into his tips from Applebee's in Wuster. He was saving that for when he started at the community college maybe the year after next. He'd be the first in their family to go to college. She would go, too. Her father had already opened a bank account under her name. She watched as they passed around the rope and rosin. Joe rubbed the sticky yellow-amber stuff between the palm of his gloves, then jerked his hands down the leather lacing of the handhold. “It's so the rope won't slip out of our hands,” he said when she asked, hovering over his shoulder. She was in the forbidden fifteen feet zone. She looked askance at Will; he hadn't noticed. At ten forty-five Mr. Bayon came into the barn. He was a heavy man—not fat or even muscular. He just looked like a lot of meat. He took the rope from the boys and swung awkwardly into the bull pen with the help of a ranch hand. From his perch astride the railing he looked over the spitting, cursing crowd of Stetsons perched atop gangling bodies. There were three teenage girls in halter tops perched on the top row of the bleachers. He looked at Amy, standing two inches behind her brother, and grinned. “You aren't riding, honey.” “It's Amy,” she said. She hated it when people called her honey. She hoped Joe didn't think she was a baby. “What's that honey?” “She knows,” Will said. Under his breath he added, “Watch it, Aims.” She clambered back up the bleachers. Mr. Bayon nodded. “All right boys. We've got six bulls that have been settin' and soaking up sun all week and they're pretty antsy and pretty mean. First one up is Tiny, just bought up last week from a guy in Cole Camp.” Will rode first. Mr. Bayon released the gate and Tiny exploded into the ring in a burst of kicking legs and swinging horns and convulsing muscles. Her brother bounced, a turquoise silver-fringed fly, his left arm flailing wildly like a wounded sparrow. His Stetson flew off first thing. The only connection between the bull and himself was his right hand gripping the rope. All around the ring and up and down the bleachers the boys whooped. Will bounced for five seconds. On the fifth second he bounced into the dust. His side barely touched the ground and he was on his knees, scrambling hands and feet, kicking up dust like a jack rabbit, and then he was falling over the fence to the other side. She saw the small crowd swallow her brother, slapping his shoulders and dusting off his shirt. She wanted to go to him, stand by him so that everybody would know that he was her brother, but the crowd was too thick. A pretty girl in a short denim skirt and straw derby hat, one of the halter top trio, appeared with Will's Stetson—how she'd gotten it from the bull ring, Amy didn't know—and coyly pressed it back down on his head. Her brother was laughing, a casual arm slung around the girl's shoulders, talking loudly and excitedly: “Five seconds! That bastard”—flashing the debonair smile that always charmed their mother—“excuse me, ma'am—was a real arm jerker. Five seconds!” From the past year's worth of Sunday dinner conversations, Amy knew it was a decent time. Professional cowboys had to ride eight seconds to score. But all in all, it didn't look like much and she told Joe so. “It's harder than it looks, little girl,” Joe said. He smiled at her and she felt a warm fizzing in her gut like when she drank warm pop on a hot day. Joe was nineteen, a year older than her brother even though he was in his class. Will said that Joe had gotten held back a year in eighth grade. Joe had gray-blue eyes and thick brown hair that was burnished gold from the sun. “I don't mean it isn't hard,” she said. “But it isn't scary . From the way you all talk, you'd think that you were fighting dragons.” “You see how heavy that bull is? Each of those hooves is carrying some four hundred pounds easy. See those crooked horns? But you aren't worried about those hooves or those horns while you're riding him, oh no, they can't hurt you then. But just wait until you're off his back and lying in the dust, all the wind knocked out of you, and he's real angry and worked up, and there you two are—still in the same ring. That's when you start worrying.” “I could do it.” She felt the pleasant warmth emanating from Joe's body at her side. From beneath her lashes she looked at his hand lying on his thigh. It was clenched hard, she noticed with surprise, the knuckles white. In the chute Luke Jones alternately patted Tiny's head and cursed him. “You son of a bitch. I'm gonna bring you down.” His voice shook a little; it was garishly loud. They let loose the gate. Three seconds and Luke was in the dust. Joe rode Tiny last. Or at least he got on. Tiny was in a foul temper. He had warmed up to the pleasure of tossing cowboys off his back. He turned his head toward the bleachers once and Amy could have sworn that he was smiling. In the chute even before Joe settled on Tiny's back, he butted his nose repeatedly against the wood. His feet danced in the dust without going anywhere. His constrained heaving had developed into violent snorts, like her grandfather when he hacked to clear his throat of phlegm. It wouldn't matter to Joe, though. He'd ride Tiny with skill and ease. She imagined him leaping over the fence and laughing, slinging his arm around her shoulder as the crowd closed in, saying, “Six seconds!” and then grinning down at her and apologizing when he accidentally cursed. Even before his body left the chute Tiny's hind legs sprang into the air so that his body was almost perpendicular to the ground. Not even a second and Joe lay in the middle of the arena. Tiny charged. The clowns leaped over the fence and Joe ran toward the gate, his foot lifted to step on the rail even before he reached it. His shirt had come untucked and caught on something and he thudded to the ground. When the crowd made way, Mr. Bayon knelt and ran his fingers over Joe's arm. Amy edged into the center behind him. “It's a clean break,” he said. “ Nancy 's in the house calling a doctor.” Joe was gritting his teeth and there was mud where the dust had mixed into the sweat at his temples. She extended a hand and wiped it off, very gently, then smeared her hands down the length of Will's shirt. She felt tender, like she did when she took care of baby birds that were left orphaned in shattered nests on the ground after a bad storm. She wished, almost, that he were more hurt, enough so that he would be confined to a hospital where she would nurse him, smooth his fevered brow. “You've sure got a way of handling those bulls, Joe,” someone joked. Joe turned his head away. “So you can take Tiny, can you?” Will said. “Shut up,” she said, jutting out her jaw and glaring at her brother. Will looked at her in surprise. “You shouldn't make fun of him when he's hurt.” “Got a little woman standing up for you,” someone else said. And later, when Amy climbed into the back of Will's pickup and begged to come along next week—“It's not like I was any trouble”—Will said, “I don't know, Aims, it doesn't really seem like a good place for you. All this violence and people breaking bones.” “Fuck off,” Joe said. He was still waiting for Doctor Hadley to come out to the ranch and set his arm. “And after Luke and me wore him out for you,” Will said, shaking his head. “Fuck off, I said.”
***
After dinner, Amy got out of washing dishes because she had a math packet due the next day and Will got out of drying them because he had to help her. They sat at the kitchen table with her math book open and undated notes in a scatter. Behind them, their mother's humming melted into the rush of water at the sink. How many sides to this object? An octagon-like, but three-dimensional, figure was printed on the page. “So?” “I'm still counting,” Amy said. “You're supposed to use an equation, Aims.” Their mother's voice fluctuated with the rush of the water. “Hey Will.” A low whisper. “Hey Amy.” “It was fun today.” “Yeah? Find the equation, Aims.” “Yeah. It looks super fun to ride a bull.” Will found the equation, nestled in some cramped corner of a sheet of looseleaf notebook paper, surrounded by doodles of hearts and flowers and her name in bubble letters. He thrust it at her and she plugged in the numbers. Behind them their mother continued to hum. “Hey Will.” “Hey Amy.” “Joe said that he videotaped some pretty cool rides from last year's PBR.” “God, will you focus , Amy. This isn't my math packet.” “He said that I can go over anytime and watch them.” “You're never going to Joe's and you're not going to ride a bull,” Will said. The sink gurgled and fell silent. Their mother dried her hands on the dish towel. When she had kissed them goodnight and was heading upstairs, she said, “Don't just give her all the answers, Will.”
***
The following Sunday, in the bullpen outside the barn, where they kept the bulls that had already been ridden, Tiny stood flicking his tail and admiring the sky. His huge eyes rolled in her direction—warmly, Amy thought—when she approached. He ambled over, friendly-like, and she crooned, “You big loony, you aren't as mean as those stupid boys think you are, are you. You're really a sweetheart, aren't you.” She perched on the fence. Tiny shuddered, sensing her proximity. He stepped away then back again. She tentatively put a hand on his triangularly peaked forehead and patted it nervously and quickly, then snatched it back and hid her hand in Will's long sleeves. She had filched another shirt. “Oh yes, you are a sweetheart.” She sat there with Tiny in companionable silence for what seemed like ten minutes before she slowly reached for the rope. “Oh that's such a nice Tiny,” winding the rope gently and slowly around her bare fingers. She lifted her left leg mincingly over Tiny's back—not in a crook so that it curved over his back, but holding the leg parallel to the ground so that she didn't touch him. She was suspended on the fence with one leg straight out, the toes curled slightly in the sneakers as though she were at the bar in dance class. Tiny's eyes rolled back in his head. She saw Will from the corner of her eye even before she heard his shout, “Amy!” and then she didn't think, there was no time. She launched herself off the fence, the leg curling over naturally and the other one too, clamping Tiny between them as though she had always ridden bulls. Tiny stood still for a second, shocked and stunned and probably betrayed at this friendly girl who had suddenly become another pest upon his back, and then in a sudden burst of what Amy realized must be indignation, he bucked. She felt the heavy bones, the dense, warm packed-in flesh jerking between her thighs, the delicate hump of the animal pressed up against her pelvis. Then she felt air, she was flying, and there was the sun that she knew was there and could see in the unseeing brightness but that she couldn't quite recognize in her consciousness, not now. It was an uncertain sea of nothingness below her bottom and an aching emptiness between her thighs where there, too, was now nothing at all, and she didn't know whether she would ever come down again. There was no air in her lungs and yet it didn't bother her because she wasn't thinking about breathing, she wasn't thinking at all, only feeling everything in a long rush—the warmth of the sun, the rough brush of wind, the million little pricks of dust like fire ants swarming over her body. Then she felt the jolt of dense, warm packed-in flesh against her pelvis again, the bony hump slamming into her chest—and vacuous air once more. Then she lay stunned and exultant on the ground. Three. Somebody was shouting three and there was clapping and cheering from far off, all around. Three seconds? Had it really only been three seconds? She had been suspended in air for an eternity, an hour, a minute at least. Her lungs contracted and expanded, remembering to breathe. She suddenly felt the numbness of her back and the disobedience of her arms, which splayed in the dust ignoring her brain which urged them to prop the rest of her body up. She laughed. She had ridden Tiny. “Aims!” Will's voice shouted. “Aims!” Had he seen her ride? Then she heard the pounding, felt the vibrations in the dust that subsumed her body, saw in her peripheral vision the brown mass charging toward her, heard the frantic roar of the boys like rain crashing against a windshield. She had no time to think for Will's arms were suddenly beneath her, and he was running and cussing—“fuck, Amy, fuck”—and then she was tossed over the fence like a sack of flour and dropped into somebody else's arms. The arms set her on her feet and then Will's face was an inch away from her own and he was yelling, “What the fuck were you thinking? You could have been killed in there.” “But I wasn't,” she said. Even as her heart rushed like bile to her throat, Will's voice grated. She felt a sticky warmth and looked down. Her right hand was bloody from the rough hemp that had scourged open her skin. It didn't hurt. She held it up wonderingly for Will to see. “Fuck, Amy, don't you mouth off to me. You think this is a game?” “Well that's why you ride. It's a game.” “Not for you.” “Why not?” The tears suddenly pushed hot and wet against the backs of her eyeballs. “Why not for me? It's never for me. Well, I told you Will Curry that I could ride a bull and I did, didn't I?” “Yeah, you're all grown up now, aren't you, Amy.” “Yeah, I am,” she said to his departing back.
***
The stockyard was quiet and the cowsheds offered at least some privacy. She chose the cleanest corner and peed. The air felt good on her sweaty bare bottom and thighs. She stood and glanced around for something to wipe with. There was a clean-looking block of straw resting on top of a manger. She grabbed a handful and gingerly swabbed it a couple times between her legs and across the small tuft of hair that was beginning to sprout there. She was still surprised whenever she showered or went to the bathroom and saw it there, unfamiliar and ugly. When she bent to pull up her pants, she saw the shadow near her feet. She whirled around. Joe, his left arm cradled in a sling, stood in the open shed. Blood and heat rushed to her face and she realized suddenly that her jeans were still unzipped, hanging loosely about her hips. Her undies peeped out in the v of the opening. They were a pair of the days-of-the-week underwear set that she had gotten from her grandmother for Christmas. The baby blue-scripted “Sunday” was just visible. She couldn't move for shock, and then she was fumbling incompetently at the zipper. Joe said: “Leave it.” Her hand froze. The sun was to his back so that she couldn't see his face clearly and his body was a black imprint across the flat expanse of yellow stockyard and blue sky. The open shed faced full west and it was near four o'clock in the afternoon now. The sun shone brightly into the shed and into her face so that she had to squint. The tips of his hair gleamed gold so that he seemed to be some dark demon wearing a halo. She felt a fizzing in the pit of her stomach, not like warm pop on a hot day this time, but like a bee was trapped in her gut. “Hey little girl, that was quite a ride you had today,” Joe said. “Thank you.” He had seen her ride, she thought exultantly. She was acutely conscious of and confused about her open jeans, embarrassed about her undies. She wished they were pale and silky, trimmed with wisps of lace. He came closer and the bee in her gut buzzed. She caught her breath. She could see his face now. He was smiling and she thought looked very handsome, but somehow the bee was making her nauseous and excited at the same time. She became suddenly aware of the hot sun on her bare belly, where it was exposed between her open jeans and Will's shirt which she had knotted above her navel. She wanted to pull the shirt down but her hands were empty gloves. “Hey,” Joe said and he was right in front of her now. “You like me, right?” “Yes.” He was standing very close. She could feel his warm breath upon her forehead and it was as if it were her own breath that she felt, breath that he had sucked out of her, her chest was so empty and tight. The bee rammed its stinger into the walls of her stomach over and over again. She wanted to cry and was confused—disappointed?—when she discovered that he had sucked up all her tears, too, and the hot air was painfully dry upon the sensitive surface of her eyes. Women were supposed to cry when they were kissed for the first time by the man they loved. Was he going to kiss her? Of course she wanted him to. She'd dreamed about him kissing her for the whole week. “Hey, why so nervous?” he said. “Don't be nervous. It's me, Joe.” He touched her arm. His hand was large and warm and lightly sprinkled with gold hair. Her gut went cold, clenched together hard, killed the bee. She wanted to move away, but that was silly, this was Joe. He put his hand on her bare belly. His hand was hotter than the sun pounding on the shed roof, burning her skin. But beneath the scorched skin her gut got colder and colder, and it clenched to the point of pain so that she thought it would crush itself. Within its frozen folds the mutilated corpse of the bee roiled. The absent tears pushed persistently behind her eyes. Why wasn't he kissing her? “Easy now, little girl.” He made little hushing noises in his throat. I'm not a little girl, she thought and opened her mouth but nothing came out. “Easy, little girl. Look at me.” She looked at him and saw his smile, the sun gold-tipping his head. His teeth were uneven and just a little bit yellow. “Look at me,” he said, and he wasn't smiling anymore. She continued looking at him, but she wasn't really seeing him anymore, she was staring at some white blaze of light in her own head. She felt the huge hot hand slide down her belly like a boiling slug and slip beneath the edge of her undies, the calloused fingertips like feelers creeping slowly toward that sparse newly grown patch. She wanted to look down, step away, say something, but the blinding whiteness inside her head suffused her eyes, clogged her throat, unraveled at the edges and bound her muscles with feathery tentacles of light. Then she heard him: “Aims! Where the hell are you.” Will's voice, somewhere beyond the cowshed. The whiteness evaporated. Joe stepped back. His eyes looked enormous. “Will's looking for you,” he said. “You'd better get back to the barn.” He paused. “You might want to zip up your jeans.” She yanked at the zipper, did the top button of her jeans with cold rubbery fingers. Heat flushed again through her body, flooding her face. She wrenched at the knot of her shirt. It fell down, long and wrinkled, almost to her knees. “Hey Joe, have you seen my sister?” Will came into the shed. He saw her in the corner—did he notice the dark stain in the orange dust around her feet?—and looked from Joe to her then back to Joe again in surprise. “Oh. She's here.” “Yeah.” “Well—how's the arm?” Will went to her and clamped a hand about her upper arm. She usually hated it when he held her like that, it made her feel as though she were a horse that he was leading on a rope. But now she felt that if he held her any less firmly, she would sink to the ground. “It's healing. Doc says the cast should be off in a couple of weeks.” Will nodded. He looked down at her. “I called Mom and told her that you rode a bull. She's hopping mad. She's come to get you.” She looked up at him and wanted to say something but she still felt like crying and the romantic moment had passed and she didn't want Will and his friend to see her act the baby. Her brother was looking down at her with concern. “Hey Aims, don't you even think about crying or getting mad. Riding bulls isn't a joke,” he said, the angry inflection in his voice obviously false. “Come on. Mom's waiting for you in the car.” He steered her toward the sunlight beyond the open shed.
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