I was nervous. Would she in some way feel that I had overstepped the bounds, appropriated her story?
The boy’s pulse listed as he helped me learn the jerk of the clutch.
I was the biographer of one woman, but I was also writing my own life.
Because our religion always marked us as oddities—the people who didn’t believe in doctors—my mother cringed at anything she thought was not socially normal.
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