PREVIEW

... again, slower this time, my knuckles brushing old wood.

Still nothing.

Maybe Angel is resting.

Maybe he’s asleep.

But how can I be sure he’s alright? He didn’t even eat anything.

But the thought doesn’t settle my chest.

It’s midnight. The staff apartments are quiet, the hallway dim and cold. I stand there holding a small cake box in one hand and a paper bag of heat suppressants in the other. The warmth from the cake has already begun to fade.

...

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