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She was six, though I didn’t know it then. Barefoot on cold concrete. Pink pajamas with faded hearts.
Hair knotted like she’d rolled through a storm. Eyes huge and wild.
She won’t get up. I don’t know what to do!”
My stomach dropped so hard I swear I felt it hit my shoes.
I put the box down, crouched so I was eye level, hands shaking even though I was trying to sound normal.
“Hey, honey,” I said. “What’s your name?”
“Rosie.”
“Okay, Rosie,” I said, forcing my voice stable.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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