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“The fever,” the child mutters, voice tinged with distant sadness, like it's a feeling she’s held on for long. She holds her chin in contemplation. The pages turn in her head, a puzzle with missing pieces. “So, you two haven’t met yet.”
Rio narrows her eyes. “Haven’t met who?”
A ghost of a smile coasts the child’s lips. “Your scar.”
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3 deaths, 1 Rio.
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