She could feel her face turning beet red. When the word “FREAK” appeared scratched in the persimmon colored paint on her locker, she knew that in some fragile young woman’s mind a war had escalated from imaginary to physical. “No, John, you won’t understand. I was happy to oblige them, I had grown sick of the heat of the south and all the miserable sun. Seems as she don’t trust soldiers easy. My last foster father in Alabama before the Becks was a heavy drug abuser.
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