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Chapter 7: The art of running away
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Chapter 9: The morning after the end of the world
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... > The words tasted bitter, like the stale coffee I hadn’t bought yet. I adjusted my collar, trying to shake the feeling of being watched, and ducked under the wrought-iron archway of the botanical gardens.
The sun was bleeding out on the horizon, casting long, bruised shadows across the neatly trimmed hedges. The greenhouse—a massive dome of glass and steel—glowed orange in the dying light. It was warm near the vents, smelling of damp earth, exotic fertilizer, and impending felony.
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