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You’re sleeping, Anna, curled up by my thigh, all smooth curves and warm ochre. Even here, even under the Hill, your body remembers to do it, remembers dawn and dusk, the linear and regular progression of time as the sun chased the moon through the sky. You’re sleeping. Or maybe it’s your body remembering to die, the poison in your veins.
(I don’t know. I’m not the nurse, not the home care health specialist. Tell me Anna; what does atropine poisoning look like?)
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