One more time? For the audience?" he says. His voice isn't angry. It's hollow, which is worse. Already the boy with the bread is slipping away from me. I take his hand, holding on tightly, preparing for the cameras, and dreading the moment when I will finally have to let go.
I take his hand, holding on tightly, preparing for the cameras, and dreading the moment when I will finally have to let go.
He never lets go of Annie's hand. Not when they walk, not when they eat. I doubt he ever plans to.
I look down at our linked fingers as I loosen my grasp, but he regains his grip on me. “No, don’t let go of me,” he says.
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