Wren stretched out her arms and legs to form an X with her body. She moved them back and forth, then turned on her side and curled up inside the angel she had made in the sand. She would have slept there, breathing winter’s poison wind, if a police officer hadn’t roused her and escorted her off the beach.
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Peter took his beating for the cracked ridges and deep valleys in her voice. He had started the fight because he was homesick and she sounded like home, but he blamed the bourbon. He had knocked back four shots of Maker's Mark before he ever met the girl.
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