When the word “FREAK” appeared scratched in the persimmon colored paint on her locker, she knew that in some fragile young woman’s mind a war had escalated from imaginary to physical. After the sights he would have to twiddle his thumbs until the joints cracked. Thank you for walking me home the other day. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. I told him that I would help stage your kidnapping.
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