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Summary
Sandra Lynn draws back her bow. And it doesn't feel wrong—as the fletching tickles her cheek, as she sights down the broadhead, as she aims straight for the heart—in all that time, it never once feels wrong.
An arrow sprouts from her daughter's chest, and it feels monstrously correct. Not a betrayal but a seamless continuation, the rhyme of every minute of every day since before Figueroth was even born, beautiful and terrible in its poetry.
