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... again, slower this time, my knuckles brushing old wood.
Still nothing.
Maybe Angel is resting.
Maybe he’s asleep.
But how can I be sure he’s alright? He didn’t even eat anything.
But the thought doesn’t settle my chest.
It’s midnight. The staff apartments are quiet, the hallway dim and cold. I stand there holding a small cake box in one hand and a paper bag of heat suppressants in the other. The warmth from the cake has already begun to fade.
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