Eighteen

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Adam had been lying awake in bed for several minutes, watching the morning sun cast a dull sheen across the bedcovers. Mo had awakened slightly with him, but pressed herself against him, her head resting on his shoulder, and fell back asleep. Adam pulled her hair back gently and started tracing his fingertips on her ear. She stirred and smashed his hand against the side of her head to stop him.

“Don’t ruin it, fella,” she laughed softly into her pillow, then settled back into sleep.

Adam had not felt this quiet, this calm, in a long time. It was not any one thing; it was just that the last two or three days seemed to be in slow motion. ...

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