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14 Sorrowful mystery Something ancient burrows its white heart into the girl left for dead along the side of the road, stoned past the point of reflex. The opossum’s tongue grazes her lip, brushes the soft hair on her neck. You’d think it might show a little sympathy for a thing so like itself: oblivious to the breaching of bone, unable now to see anything other than what must be an opening. It’s light, though, back home, it’ll be hours before anyone stirs. ...

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