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Summary
The wake of Ashley burns like scar tissue. Like raised, white skin, tough as gristle, rife with damaged nerves and what look like the faint etchings of a searing-hot casing. A reminder every time you look at your shirtless body in the mirror and hear the doctor’s words, hollow in your ears, that one inch further and you’d never shoot a pistol again in your life.
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Ten meditations on the duties of a savior.