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When she wakes in the middle of the night with a swollen, pus-filled wound from the crescent scar under her eye, Otan groans and swears, punctures it with a semi-clean knife and stitches it crudely, all the while scolding her for letting it get so bad.
“It could have gotten infected,” he tells her while she grips her knee tightly against the pain of the needle on her flesh. “You need to be careful.”
“I don’t care,” she whispers, shifting her eyes away from her brother’s face. “I don’t care.”
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