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to 47 Maple Street.
I received that by email from her doctor. Not from my family.
On April 22, I finished my shift at Planned Parenthood and walked to my car. Claire was waiting. Bald. Thin. Wearing an N95 mask because she was immunocompromised.
She tried to hug me. I stepped back six feet.
“Lara, please,” she cried. “I was scared. I was young. I didn’t continue reading …
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