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The next morning, I peeked through my curtains with a cup of coffee in hand. I’d barely taken a sip when I saw her—Darlene, with her platinum blond hair and always-perfect lipstick—tiptoe over to my porch. She looked around like a kid caught with their hand in the cookie jar.
I watched as she reached for the box. The second she lifted it, the barking started. She jumped so high I thought she’d sprain an ankle, and the box slipped from her hands. She stumbled backward, nearly landing on my rose bush.
