She imagined herself on a barren 41 plain, post-Apocalypse, convulsing, waiting to die with the cockroach. She had eaten them. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you so badly,’ he said, still meeting her eyes, unaware that his hold about her hand had tightened a little. A species of vertigo seized him. “My brother’s room when he comes home. Wood will protect you," urged Mrs.
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