I Let My Sister Talk Herself Into the Fire

had my handwriting from Monday.

That helped.

Real work helps.

Not speeches. Not family mythology. Not the polished smile.

The thing on the screen either works or it doesn’t.

At 7:02 my phone buzzed once.

Rebecca.

For a second I thought she’d rage-text me. A paragraph. Five paragraphs. Something sharp enough to bleed through glass.

Instead it was one line.

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