She wondered who the girl might belong to as she patted dirt over the shallow grave. Their heads touched again, their arms tightened. Her pat answer to all inquiries was, “I let my sister Shari make me over,” while she kept from staring at her own reflection in the shiny shoes past her bare knees. If the boy had done anything wrong back there in the States, his would be the brand of conscience to pay him out in full. It had been a trying day. He will be some time in this comatose state. She held her hand to the place where he had slapped her.
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