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It’s an odd feeling, going from alone by design to suddenly being thrust into knowing, really knowing, a group of people. If Beau thinks about it too hard, it gives her whiplash. It’s not painful, exactly, it’s not like getting hit, it’s more like being slowly boiled. If you’d told Beauregard Lionett before all of this that she’d know and be known, she would have hit the road faster than a lightning bolt, but it happened. All natural and slow and unexpected.
She’s grateful.