Peter
That boy should be in a hospital, Helen said, propping hands on hips, pushing past me out of the barn into the blazing sun. She paces, opening and slamming compartments in the refrigerated truck bed. Sterile syringe packs peel open, glass vial seals crack. Gauze, tubing, and steel buckets foist into my arms.
"This is all your doing, right?"
"Correct,…
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