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... arm as she helped me sit up. My throat burned where the glass had bitten, and I could feel the warm trickiness of blood still seeping despite the pressure she’d applied. The towel against my neck was soaked through, heavy with what I’d gambled.

Worth it.

I looked down at Hazel. She sat crumpled against the shattered tiles, her broken hand cradled against her chest. Mascara streaked down her face in ugly black rivers. She rocked slightly, lips moving in what might have been prayer ...

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