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Lee

Lee shuts up when he’s angry and this time he’s been breathing through his nose so long that when he starts to open his mouth again, a puff of steam clouds his glasses. (It’s not very cold out, but it’s cold enough.)

It would be terribly easy, and blameless, and he can’t do it. It is morally right but it’s logically invalid. So he won’t let go.

Lee’s fists are soft and hot inside, wrinkled like a baby’s. His eyes are red-rimmed. It takes a long time, this slow scared reopening, the strained release of all his body’s wish to hurt.

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