the first draft. Then most of the second. Eventually I kept only what sounded like us. My parents did not call Wednesday. They did not call Thursday. Neither did I. I checked my phone more than I wanted to admit. Then I put it in a drawer. I had not told them about Franco. As far as they knew, I would walk alone. Let them assume. Saturday would answer the question for them. Late Thursday afternoon, someone knocked on my front door. Rosa Camacho stood outside. She had lived two
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