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Dashiell

Dashiell doesn’t want the futon with Becky, who will lie about it and has the beer farts besides, but it beats the floor or (worst of all) another dude. She took the extra pillow; he doubles up and makes do.

Around godawful o’clock he’s awakened by her insistent rump, scooching against him. He’s appalled, if a little flattered. Surely she can’t be? In a room with eight people?

Dashiell rolls over and sees that she’s asleep, after all. Her face is almost pure with it. There’s no intent there, just that simple, clumsy mammalian bump: I’m here. You’re big. Warm me.

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