He didn’t come home the same. Something followed him back from Cambodia, clinging tighter than jet lag or fading photographs. It was small, painted, impossibly bright—and it would not let him sleep. The image of one child would not fade, her story scratching at his mind until it carved itself into his days, his choices, his very skin. He thought it would pass. It didn’t. Instead, it demanded to be seen, to be spoken, to be carried on the only place he couldn’t hide: the tip of one fin… Continues…
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