In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. . “It couldn’t be. This was no night for the indulgence of dreamy musing. ‘Sir?’ enquired the lad. It was as if the Devil himself had raped and defiled her mother. Both Jordan and Josiah stopped speaking to my Mom and Dad seven years ago! I don’t know why they couldn’t try and contact me.
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