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... > She wasn’t looking at me anymore. She was looking at the badge. At the dark metal in her palm. Her thumb moved across the engraving one more time, slow and deliberate, like she was reading something in braille.
"Your father’s," she said again. Same quiet voice. Same careful certainty. "Or something very close to it."
The room felt smaller suddenly.
I stood up.
"What does that mean," I said. "It’s his badge, it’s his *symbol* — what exactly are we talking about h ...
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