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’Was my effort for three years for naught.’
Not a question. It didn’t have the energy to be a question. It just sat there on the ceiling with her, flat and heavy, the specific weight of a conclusion she had been avoiding since the ride back and could no longer avoid now that she was alone in a quiet room with nothing left to administer.
Three years.
Every morning before dawn. Every form, every sequence, every correction. The practice post with its worn smooth face. Th ...
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