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Summary
"-you love that you’ve been hit, indirectly, by them. And that they’re both touching you so gently now. George, wiping strands of hair from your face. Fred holding the back of your neck, in an effort to support you off the ground. You’re floating Baby. You want to do it again."
Joan Carmichael. Sixteen. Aspiring Loser. Caught somewhere between two orbits and a punching telescope.
