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“No,” Lena whispered. “I’d rather carry it.”

Lena looked up. Victoria—the present, silent Victoria—was staring at her. Her lips moved, but no sound came out. Instead, Lena heard a voice in her own skull, soft as rot: victoria peach camhure

“She won’t speak,” the admitting officer said, shrugging. “Found her walking down the center line of Route 9 at 3 AM. No ID. No next of kin. Just kept whispering ‘the pit, the pit.’” “No,” Lena whispered