She packed her backpack with a change of clothes, some rags, and her old length of piano wire. Old farmhouses loomed as they whizzed by, left behind in the gray like mourners. His grip twisted her wrist. Yet either the rest or the wine seemed already to have done him good. The money will last longer, and—it won’t bother you. She set her fingers in the hair and tugged, drawing him to a sitting posture and stooping so that her eyes would be on the level with his when he awoke. His father spoke for him.
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