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Bellagio

“I just remember he was medium tall,” says Doxie. “Brown hair, but not like brown brown, you know?”

“Don’t worry about descriptions,” says Bellagio. “I’m not that kind of sketch artist.” He ties the last thread of clarity, leaving a translucent web around her head. She doesn’t seem to notice.

“Okay. But he was white.” Doxie chews her nail; Bellagio picks up his pad.

“What’s your middle name, Doxie?” He gathers the end of the clarity and wraps his wrist.

“Dolores. Does that matter?”

“It certainly does,” he says, and the humming clarity twitches his pencil through the first broken line.

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