She could feel his warm little body trying to snuggle into her, trying to wriggle loose of his swaddling cloth. The taste of his sweat was intoxicating, like sweet brandy, like blood. When the word “FREAK” appeared scratched in the persimmon colored paint on her locker, she knew that in some fragile young woman’s mind a war had escalated from imaginary to physical. . Sheppard. To be near someone, even someone who made a pretense of friendliness, to hear voices, her own intermingling, would serve as a rehabilitating tonic.
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