Skyla’s earliest memory of Thomas was linked with the smell of beer and the taste of blood. She was waitressing
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week,
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Skyla walked the same route every day, a mile from home and all the way back again. The small downtown area was at the end of her route. The shops in Pellswick looked as if they’d been frozen in time fifty years before. The coffee shop sported vinyl-covered stools at the counter and a chalkboard listing the daily specials and the soup of the day. The barbershop had a revolving red and white striped pole just outside the front door. The photo studio displayed black
Roxanne laughed. “I like you, Skyla Plinka. You say it like it is.” “Certifiable in a good way, I meant.” “Yeah, that’s how I took it.” “Good.” Skyla grinned.