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You're a good dog, she whispered to him, a good brave dog. Her face was tight with soap.
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“I mean it, Hanna. I don't want you to.” But his leg felt carved away where her head had lain. One stupid thing jostling another for attention. He was afraid that if she touched him again, he'd have her on the ground.
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The coyotes howled and yipped and barked, and Max thought he could make out individual voices—five or seven of them, maybe more. He kept his eyes on the woods east of the lake, looking for them, for movement. In the moonlight the leafless trees—Sid Miller
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