. \" She handed the ticket seller, a boy that looked to be all of eighteen years old, murder money that she had stolen from Dawn Plote's dead son, five dollars. what’s your name again?” He asked. He even thought he could detect the voice of Jonathan, urging and directing them. She could feel his breath on her skin, every hair on her arms and neck raised in response. It was dangerous for her to dare approaching him and she knew the tremendous risk she was taking, but a part of her demanded that he be found. I almost died from this flu.
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