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Jane

On his bed, top bunk, the late afternoon light’s coming in slantways and outside somebody’s yelling. Gorgeous day.

He didn’t see the scar on her wrist at first because it’s not discolored, but it’s definitely there if you look. He draws his fingers up to her hand and touches it. He’s known about it, about her, for a year, but hasn’t seen either until today.

She’s watching him, not afraid, just curious. It’s soft and warm under his touch–he almost expected hard edges, but it’s only a gentle, horrible vertical spray. Now and forever, it says, this person is me.

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