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... already stirring. A faint breeze carried with it the scent of dust, cactus blossom, and baked clay, weaving between clay-brick homes and crooked awnings stretched from one side of the narrow street to the other.

Alice sat on the edge of a window in their rented room atop the old inn. She rubbed her eyes, yawned, and watched the early risers shuffle past with baskets, jugs, and the occasional curious goat. From here, she could see Joan already setting up their stall, if one could call it ...

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