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... e.
It wasn’t just that the bushes had thorns. It was that the trees seemed to resent our presence. The branches didn’t just hang; they reached. Every time the wagon rattled past a particularly gnarled oak, I swear I saw the bark twitch, trying to snag the canvas cover.
"I hate nature," Tybalt muttered from the driver’s seat. He ducked as a branch whipped at his head. "Why is the lettuce so angry here?"
"It’s not lettuce, Ty," I said, consulting the map I’d drawn in the di ...
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