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Diego

Chyler’s voice is a little raw, a little stuffy, trembling on the edges. Some of her words burst out accidentally when she speaks, as if her throat’s still tight and she hasn’t quite got control of her diaphragm.

“You want to come over later?” Diego asks, keeping it light and easy.

“Yeah,” she says, “I’ll–I’ll get a cab.” There’s a tired giggle in her words. She’s been sobbing. Or laughing. Or both.

“You want to eat? I can put some noodles on.”

“No,” she says, “not hungry.”

She will be, Diego thinks. He picks down garlic, basil, sage and thyme.

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