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Then the tussling starts. I can see bits and pieces of it in the mirror: Shell in her car seat trying to reach across and slap her sister, Caz tight against the door frame with her hands up to protect herself.
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She would watch me walk past three houses to the corner deli. My grandmother. A deli on a street filled with beautiful old Victorians. That was when I was barely 10. She’d watch every step there and each back to make sure no one abducted me I suppose.
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