tc;

    quot;Dont believe in fairy tales. trouble is inside, ; Sted my ;A mot;

    quot;;

    quot;; Sed  my cure from my ced. quot;You are uring yourself ions. Little devils.quot; S ered ;  tmares out of your ;

    I stood to go, t and kissed reated me kindly over the years, as if I had been her own son.

    quot;Ive known all along, ; she said.

    I left t asking.

    I resolved to confront t ing me. to flus ters, I o t Service provided topograping iculous detail, and I laid a grid over to manageable plats. For te my loat and my aversion to nature, I explored a feier te flag of one deer running atle flies. Not muc plenty of junk—a sattered er; a small mound of empty cigarette packages; a canteen; a tortoisesones; a stopped camped Property Of County Library.

    Aside from t on its cover and t musty odor to its pages, tact. tory revolved around a religious fanatic named tarer or tearer. I gave up reading novels in cificial ruts construct elaborate lies to t could be kno t be just teen-year-old , so I took it back to tually nobody  midsummer day, except for a cute girl beer.

    quot;I found t belongs to you.quot;

    S t  treasure, brus;Just a minute.quot; Sack of stamped cards. quot;t t been c at all. Did you forget?quot;

    quot;No,quot; I explained. quot;I found it, and ed to return it to tful o;

    quot;Maybe I can ;  poked me in the ribs.

    I leaned close and smiled at ;Do you ;

    S. quot;;

    quot;Or fairies. Imps, t