“He sat at the French family’s aging PC, reading printouts. He had made coffee. “There’s nothing perishable in the refrigerator. Nor piled up mail,” he said, peering at the printouts. “I think the family plans to be gone a while.” Daria nodded and let him get on with his research. She showered again. She still smelled dust and asbestos in her hair, though that was likely her imagination. She studied her eyes in the mirror. She felt the glands in her neck. She seemed healthy enough. S...he buttoned herself into the boy’s denim shirt. She returned to the dining room, poured coffee and sat, one heel up on the seat of the chair, hugging her nut-brown knee. “I don’t think I’m infected with Asher’s flu.” The Syrian squinted up at her, nodded, his unruly hair bobbing. He turned back to the dot-matrix printouts and Daria realized he probably needed reading glasses. “Why did the French hit me so hard?MoreLessRead More Read Less
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